Fair Game 2
by Greenlips24
Summary: This is a sequel to my modern AU story "Fair Game." Ten months after the battle against Russian criminal, Yaroslav Krupin, Heshima Game Reserve is doing well under the leadership of Jean Treville and his men. Funding is coming in, and income is being generated. Everyone has settled into their roles. They still have enemies though, and one in particular who is seeking revenge.
1. Chapter 1

**Fair Game 2**

 **By Greenlips24**

Back to the African savannah, dear readers, for another adventure which should last well into January, hopefully banishing some of the winter blues. It's been a year since I posted the first story, so here, we catch up with what's going on.

oOo

 **S** **UMMARY** **: This is a sequel to** **my modern AU story,** **Fair Game.** Ten monthsafter the battle against Russian criminal Yaroslav Krupin, Heshima Game Reserve is doing well under the leadership of Jean Treville and his men. Funding is coming in and income is being generated. Everyone has settled into their roles. They still have enemies though and one in particular who is seeking revenge.

 **BACKGROUND:**

 **Profiles:**

Jean Treville: owner of the Heshima Game Reserve and former Army CO to Athos de la Fere and Porthos du Vallon.

Athos de la Fere: former Senior Fellow in Anthropology, ex Army Captain and now Head Ranger

Porthos du Vallon, ex Army Lt., now Deputy Head Ranger

Aramis d'Herblay: Trauma Surgeon, specialising in Plastics

Charles d'Artagnan: Veterinary Surgeon.

 **The Tswana:**

Nyack Seko, Tswana Elder. His sons, Oba, Tabansi and Rach and his daughter Nkosi, now in a relationship with Athos.

 **Heshima Game Reserve, Okavango Delta, Botswana:** "Heshima" is the Swahili word for "Honour."The Reserve comprises 1,500 square miles and lays on the eastern side of the Okavango Delta, itself 16,000 square miles in size. The nearest town is Maun, the fifth largest town in Botswana and the major gateway to the Okavango Delta. Heshima is remote in its location within the Delta. On all sides of the Delta lies a labyrinth of rivers, fresh water lagoons, woodlands and floodplains. It is home to wild dog and leopard among other savannah game, including elephant, hippopotamus, zebra, hyena, impala, giraffe, lion, Cape buffalo and black rhinoceros and over five hundred species of bird life, from water birds to forest dwellers.

It is a dangerous and beautiful place.

Treville and his men work for the benefit of the local indigenous people, the Tswana, the animals, and to preserve the land from the mining industry and large corporations who seek profit in land development. They live in The Garrison, a complex comprising the main Lodge, six cabins, stables and living quarters for ten staff. Also within the Garrison is the medical facility, run by Aramis d'Herblay and the animal facility, run by Charles d'Artagnan. Half a mile away, is the reserve hotel, run by Nkosi Seko comprising six bedrooms, with staff, to cater for wealthy holiday makers and visitors.

Heshima also employs local guides and wardens to add their own knowledge, and generates a steady income by taking conservation tours from world-wide organisations, showing people how wild animals interact in the wild and how to set up their own conservation programmes.

They have survived a full-on assault by Yaroslav Krupin, leader of a powerful Russian semi-autonomous cell who sought to destroy the reserve for what he believed was a vast diamond deposit that lay beneath it. It was only d'Artagnan's impressive IT skills that saved them, not only burying the satellite surveillance report that confirmed the diamond's existence, but red-lining it from any future exploration and at the same time, uncovering Krupin's vast illegal empire, buried deep within his computer files.

Heshima is finally safe.

Or so they believe.

oOo

 **CHAPTER ONE:**

 **A Dream Come True.**

"There she is!" Nkosi cried, unable to suppress her excitement.

She turned to look at Athos, astride his horse beside her and beamed at him. Turning back, she looked through her binoculars at the rhino herd ahead.

"Oh!"

"What?!" Athos said, suddenly alert, taking his eyes off her and lifting up his own binoculars.

"She has a suitor!" Nkosi replied in wonder; a smile in her voice.

"Another one?" Athos scoffed. "Let us see how long this one lasts before he gives up."

They had ridden out to check on their rhino herd and in particular, Thamani, their young white female calf, who Athos had seen born and had cherished ever since. It was his concern for her safety a year ago that had seen him caught in a snare; his ankle had seen three surgical procedures, courtesy of their medic, Aramis, but he still walked with a slight limp and would bear the scars for the rest of his life.

Thamani was almost three years old now. As a precaution against poachers, d'Artagnan had infused the herd's horns with ectoparasiticides, a pink dye, which made them dangerous when handled and rendered them useless to those who sought their so-called medicinal properties. Thamani had had several young rhinos showing interest in her during the past six months; but to date she had rejected them all.

"She only has eyes for you, my love," Nkosi laughed, still peering through her own binoculars at the young male rhino currently snorting his interest at the young white rhino standing amongst the other females.

Athos laughed.

"She does needs a mate, though," he said, suddenly serious.

"She has high standards," Nkosi laughed.

"Don't all females?" he replied.

She threw him a look that sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. He would never tire of looking into her eyes or seeing her smile and once again, he blessed the day he had walked into Treville's office and first set eyes on her.

Nkosi stared at him then, lost in her own thoughts. His face was becoming an open book to her despite his usual neutral expression and it warmed her heart that she had found love, much as her deceased mother, Jayne had. Her whiteEuropean mother's love for her Tswani husband, Nyack, had created a mixed-race child of Africa in Nkosi. Her father's people had accepted her so readily, as they accepted these men of Heshima, who had worked so hard to create their game reserve, named for honour, and to protect the indigenous peoples and animals of the Okavango Delta.

Athos stretched out his hand toward her and broke her reverie. Laughing, she reached over and intertwined her fingers with his.

"Our life is beautiful, _Mpenzi Wangu_ ," she whispered. (My love)

"You are beautiful," he said softly, pulling her hand to his lips and kissing her fingers.

"We should go back," she sighed.

"We should, if we want to stop Porthos sending out a search party," he smiled, gently turning his horse.

They rode slowly side by side, still hand in hand, back to Heshima as the sun began its slow descent.

oOo

 **A Courtroom, somewhere in Paris:**

"Madame, you have served six years of your seven year sentence and this is the first time you have filed for parole. Is that correct?"

Before she could answer, Anne de Brueil's barrister took to her feet to address the panel.

"That is correct, Monsieur Chairman. My client has always maintained self defence against Thomas d'Athos de la Fere. However, the possibility of parole was not granted at the time of sentencing, nor for five years thereafter, as you will see from the file you have in front of you. Madame de Brueil was found at the scene with the weapon in her hand. Adverse publicity around the trial precluded any early attempt at overturning that decision."

It had been a shocking story. A crime of passion. A cold-blooded murder. The story had run in the tabloids for weeks. The beautiful murderess, who had offered no real defence.

"Why did you not file after the five year embargo?" the Chairman of the Parole Board addressed the barrister, Mademoiselle Michelin Barout, although his eyes were on the papers in front of him.

"Madame de Brueil has taken the opportunity offered to her to improve her education, Monsieur Chairman and embarked upon a degree to better her chances of employment."

Anne lowered her eyes and sat serenely whilst her barrister continued to paint the vivid picture of a wronged-but rehabilitated middle class female seeking her place in the world.

"A degree in what subject?" the Chairman asked, peering over his glasses at the dark haired woman sitting before him, sans make-up and wearing a simple but elegant close-fitted navy dress.

Anne looked up then, her green eyes locking onto the pompous little man before her.

"Why, criminality, of course," she purred, her lips parting in an innocent smile.

oOo

"What will you do now?" Mademoiselle Barout asked as they met outside the prison two weeks later. The two women had formed a decent-enough working relationship and Anne knew Michelin was passionate about her job. Anne had given little of herself but had appreciated her barrister's professional approach and her respect for her privacy.

"A holiday, I think," Anne smiled briefly.

"Any ideas where?"

"Anywhere away from Paris," Anne replied, a hard edge creeping into her voice.

"Be careful," M. Bardout said with a sudden look of concern.

"Don't concern yourself with me. I'll be fine," Anne replied, after carefully watching the unfamiliar emotion flit across the other woman's face. "I always am."

If her barrister was shocked by the cold glint of her eyes, she did not ask. Her job was done, and the man who had paid her fees was satisfied.

They said brief goodbyes.

Anne de Brueil disappeared into the back of a large black Mercedes which pulled up, unseen by her barrister, who was now hurriedly heading toward her own car for her journey back to her office.

 **To be continued ...**

oOo

Thanks for reading!

I will wait a few days before posting Chapter Two in case anyone would like to catch up on the first story. There are references throughout the sequel to the first Fair Game, and although this sequel should stand alone, it may be helpful just to refresh memories or read fo the first time. Otherwise, its there to be referred back to, as and when.


	2. Chapter 2

It has been interesting to see how many of you have been reading the first Fair Game! Many thanks. I hope you enjoy this sequel.

oOo

 **CHAPTER TWO**

When Michelin Barout arrived back at her apartment later that evening, the first thing she did was take a shower. Although she loved her job, sometimes the underbelly of Paris was a little too harsh.

Stripping off her formal clothes, she turned the shower onto the hottest setting her skin could withstand, before stepping onto the tiles and closing the shower door. Standing, arms braced against the warm tiles, she allowed the water to sluice over her head and slowly relaxed. She had done her job, and achieved a positive outcome. However, sometimes victories were tainted.

She was relaxing now though, the water easing her taut muscles. Now, she needed a cognac, the comfort of her sofa and a little Italian opera. Wrapping a towel around her, she crossed the hall into her kitchen to collect a glass.

Humming to herself, she walking through into the lounge.

The glass slipped from her fingers at the sight of a heavy set man sitting in her armchair by the window.

"Mademoiselle Barout, I believe."

"Who the hell are you?" she gasped, being careful not to step on the shards of broken glass at her bare feet.

"Come now, do you not recognise my voice?" the man said evenly.

Of course she did.

She had wondered whether he would pay her a visit, but not in her apartment. How did he know where she lived? Her "conversations" with him had all been in her private chambers, not her home. And never face to face. This man had blackmailed her. He had threatened to expose her past. Of course he would know where she lived. The respectable life she had carved for herself was at risk; she had done his bidding and produced false DNA evidence that had proved Anne de Brueil's innocence and she had hoped she was done with him.

"What do you want?" she whispered, her heart hammering in her chest.

"Information of course."

" _What_ information?"

He handed her a slip of paper with the name of the hotel where he had deposited Anne de Brueil.

"I want to know where she goes, what she does, who she sees."

"Why?" Mlle. Barout asked; the paper shaking in her trembling fingers.

"That is not your concern. Just do it. And then you and I will talk some more."

He stood and moved slowly toward her. She stepped back as he leaned into her, running a finger over her collarbone above the towel she had wrapped tightly around her and was now clinging tightly to.

Before she could stop him, his hand grabbed the towel and pulled it away.

Utterly terrified, she did his bidding once more.

Afterwards, she staggered toward the shower once more. This time, she could barely stand the hot water as it scalded her scratched and bruised body.

oOo

One month later, he had enough information on Anne de Brueil's movements around Paris. Armed with the knowledge that she intended to visit South Africa, it was time to make his move. First though, he had to put another part of his plan in motion.

The next morning, he made a call to a private number in New York.

His call was answered after a few minutes.

"Yes?"

"It's me. It's time to visit Robert McCauley."

"As you wish," the heavily-accented voice replied.

"Excellent. I will be in touch."

Not waiting for a further response, he cut the call.

oOo

Athos and Nkosi parted company at the Heshima hotel which was her domain. She ran the hotel with a precision that the guests appreciated, taking her duties seriously but with a sense of fun much enjoyed by those on vacation. Treville had chosen well when he hired the daughter of his friend, Nyack Seko, elder of the Tswani people.

Athos rode back to the Garrison under a bright orange setting sun, arriving as nightfall crept across the land.

Dismounting, he ran his hand gently over his horse's muzzle.

"I expect you are hungry now, my friend," he murmured softly as he pulled the reins over the horse's head, to lead him to the stable block at the rear of the main Lodge.

Porthos was in there, working under the soft light of kerosene lamps, shifting a pile of straw over to one of the stalls. It was how he relaxed; that and sparring, with anyone willing to take him on. Lately, he had run out of opponents, having been a little too boisterous. Some things never changed. Aramis and d'Artagnan had avoided him that morning, as Athos rode out, having enough bruises to cope with, without acquiring any more. Aramis had retreated to his hospital facility and d'Artagnan to his lab. Athos presumed they were still there.

"You left it a bit late," Porthos said, taking charge of the horse. "It's almost nightfall."

"Not too late," Athos smiled. "I've just seen Nkosi to the hotel; the light was still good enough for the horses to ride."

Porthos grunted, as he began to rub the horse down. He had been overly protective since Athos had recovered from his injury, though Athos did not complain. They had been friends for a long time, having served as soldiers in Treville's blue-helmeted peace corps all over Africa, before buying into the man's dream of owning a large piece of Botswana. Athos knew Porthos's words came from love.

"Letter came for you," Porthos responded, letting the matter go.

"Oh?" Athos replied, waiting for Porthos to elaborate.

"Yeah, pushed it under your door."

"Alright. I'll get it and then we can have a drink, yes?"

Porthos laughed.

"Sure. I'll meet you in the kitchen."

The kitchen took up half a large lounge area in the main Lodge where they all gathered when their work was over. Porthos liked to cook and to ensure they all ate plenty and often. Nobody complained; he was an excellent cook.

"Is that all the post that came?" Athos asked, as he removed his gloves and tucked them into his belt.

"No, your books came too; I put the box on the table in the kitchen."

"Thank you. I ordered the one on Harley Davidson's you were interested in," Athos said.

Porthos brightened at once. Athos had a regular order for books, and an ever growing number of catalogues to choose from. They were delivered every two months. He was currently filling several new bookcases in his room. While he had been recovering, there had been nothing to read and he had vowed to rectify that when he was back on his feet. Since then, half the shelves had been filled.

Porthos could not help pulling a few from the shelves whenever he was in Athos's room. Athos had an eclectic taste in books and Porthos enjoyed learning. He had come from the poor suburbs of Paris and was self-made. Meeting Athos had opened his eyes to art and culture and Athos was generous in his discussions with him and with this possessions. He took great pleasure in seeing Porthos quietly absorb knowledge. Aramis's taste in books fell mainly to poetry, medicine or religion. He owned several old bibles that Porthos did not dare touch. He much preferred the variety of Athos's books.

"Although I do hope you do not intend to have one of those things shipped over here," Athos growled as he turned and left the stables. "You will frighten the giraffes."

He could hear Porthos laughing as he walked across the yard to his room at the rear of the Lodge. Porthos would know Athos wasn't joking for a family group of giraffes came to the lake in front of the Garrison every morning, much to the delight of any guests who gathered to go on the safari tours that Athos and Porthos supervised. They had worked hard to bring the lake back after the water had been poisoned the previous year and had all been delighted when the animals had returned.

Smiling to himself, Athos strode across the yard toward the rear of the Lodge, and his room.

Watching him go, Porthos was pleased to see that the limp he had carried for the past year was not so evident tonight. In fact, there was a slight spring in his step.

He chuckled as he eased the feed bag over the horse's head.

Athos was happy.

"Ain't that sweet," he said quietly.

oOo

 **To be continued...**


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

Athos punched in the code and let himself into the Lodge. As he did so, he looked up to check the light on the camera above him was lit and flashing. Since the Russians had attacked and almost destroyed the Garrison the previous year, they had stepped up security in every direction of their work.

His boots echoed on the wooden floor as he approached his door and reached for his keys. Unlocking the door, he bent to pick up the letter from the floor, just inside the threshold. Staring at the logo on the front of the envelope, he frowned. It had a Paris post mark and it looked official.

He walked slowly into the room toward his desk, while opening the envelope carefully. It held a single page, which he extracted and began to read. As he did so, he reached out and took hold of the back of the chair that sat at his desk. His hand tightened until his knuckles were white. Finally, he screwed the page up in his hand and threw it across the room.

Breathing hard, he dashed the chair backwards, watching as it bounced on the tiles. Then he turned, staggered a few steps and flung the door open so hard, it hit the wall. Not bothering to close it, he stormed down the corridor and out of the building, before heading for the truck by the storage building, climbing in and turning the ignition key.

Cursing when it failed to fire up, he tried again, pressing his foot heavily on the accelerator. The engine roared into life and the headlights came on, lighting up half the yard. He swung the vehicle around in one movement and drove at speed through the gates in a cloud of dust.

Having been alerted by the noise of the engine and the headlights, d'Artagnan had watched through his window, before moving to stand in the doorway of his Lab. He watched Athos's departure into the night, before seeing Porthos hurrying out of the building to also watch his friend disappearing.

Porthos turned his head and saw d'Artagnan looking at him.

"What was that about?" d'Artagnan called.

"No idea," Porthos replied, "but I'm goin' to find out," he added, before turning back and heading for Athos's room.

In his heart of hearts, he knew it had something to do with the letter he had slipped under his friend's door.

oOo

The rear door to the Lodge had been flung open and left.

Porthos walked through and pulled it shut behind him. He could see down the corridor that the door to Athos's room was also open. Standing in the corridor and looking into the room, his eyes fell on the upturned chair. He walked over to it and righted it. Looking around, he saw the screwed up letter on the floor.

Not wanting to read it, but knowing it was the only clue he had as to Athos's erratic behaviour, he picked it up and began to unfold it. He groaned as he sat on the edge of the bed, scanning the print once more and looking at the signature.

It was from Athos's lawyer, telling him that Anne, his ex-wife, was being released from her prison sentence.

"Bloody hell," he murmured as he read the words once more, realising the impact they must have had on his friend; coming out of the blue.

"What's wrong?" d'Artagnan asked from the doorway.

Porthos jumped, not having heard the young man approach.

"Athos's ex is being released. Letter from his lawyer," he replied over his shoulder, waving the crumpled page at him.

"What? How?!

"Technicality, it says. Something to do with DNA."

"What do you want to do?" d'Artagnan asked after a few moments; already knowing the answer.

"Find 'im," Porthos growled as he barrelled past him out of the Lodge, toward one of the other trucks.

"Do you want us to come? I can go and get Aramis," d'Artagnan shouted as he followed him.

"Nah. I got this," the big man said. He pulled open the door of the truck and slid inside, before looking at d'Artagnan, now standing beside the vehicle, concern written all over his face. At the sight of him, Porthos sighed.

"Thanks, but we've been 'ere before. I've got an idea where's he's goin'. Best lock the gates. And … don't wait up," he smiled grimly.

With that, he gunned the engine and took off in the manner of his friend, through the gates and into the night.

oOo

Two hours and three bars later, Porthos was narrowing it down. He had an informed idea of where to find Athos; he had a couple of bars of choice when the mood struck him. His falls from grace were few and far between these days, but there were two things, or people, who would always have a detrimental effect on him. Thomas and Anne.

Athos made it hard for him this time, but when Porthos finally found him, he was well on his way to oblivion.

"Damn," he growled as he took in the form of his friend at the table in the corner of the bar in Maun, their nearest town. The bartender, a young man who knew them, made eye contact and a slicing movement across his own throat, indicating he had served him enough and would not provide any more. Porthos nodded gratefully.

"Hey," he said quietly, as he sat down opposite his friend.

Athos raised baleful eyes to him.

Porthos's heart hitched. He had hoped never to see this look on his friend's face again.

"She's out then," Porthos muttered, lost for the right words; knowing there weren't any.

"You read the letter?" Athos asked, but there was no recrimination in it.

"Just the first part," Porthos grunted. That was all he needed to.

"Life imprisonment and out in six," Athos spat. "That's the price of my brother's life."

"It ain't fair, Ath," Porthos said gently.

"He didn't deserve to die for it," Athos continued, not hearing.

"Nah, he didn't. How did it happen?"

"Technicality," Athos replied, telling Porthos what he already knew.

"What did your lawyer say?" Porthos pressed.

"I haven't spoken to him. I only know what's in the letter."

"That ain't right!" Porthos said, "Surely he warned ya about the possibility?!"

Athos did not reply, merely raising the dregs of his glass and swallowing.

"What happened, Athos?" Porthos said, reaching out and taking the glass from his hand.

"Something to do with DNA. Apparently, they have come on in leaps and bounds with DNA sequencing in the last few years."

"You've lost me, mate."

Athos waved the comment away.

"It doesn't damn-well matter; she's out. Or will be, soon enough."

Porthos sat back and ran a hand over his face in frustration.

"Come on, brother," he said gently. "Let's go back. We can talk some more there."

Porthos thought Athos would argue, but he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and dug out the keys to the vehicle parked outside and passed them over.

"We'll 'ave to collect it in the mornin'" Porthos said, sliding them into his pocket. "Hopefully, it'll still be 'ere."

"Sorry," Athos muttered, swaying slightly, his head down and his hair covering his face.

"S'alright, brother," Porthos said, putting his arm around his shoulder and moving him toward the door. He nodded at the barman as they left and gently pushed Athos into the passenger seat of his own truck.

The drive back to the Garrison was silent. Porthos could feel the tension rolling off Athos and let him be. Soon, he was pulling into the Garrison and opening the door for Athos to slide out. Once in the kitchen, Porthos flipped the switch on the coffee machine and pushed Athos down onto the sofa. They had the room to themselves and Porthos pulled his friend's legs up and pumped some cushions behind him. If he fell asleep, he could leave him there.

Athos though, was too wound up to sleep. He accepted the black coffee Porthos placed on the small table next to the sofa and eventually, he raised his eyes and met his friends steady gaze.

"Does she know where you are?" Porthos asked as soon as he knew Athos was focussed on him.

"She will find me; damn woman would give Sherlock Holmes a run for his money," Athos slurred slightly.

Porthos laughed and Athos glared at him.

Then a small smile crept onto his lips and he leant over and picked up his coffee.

"You have a new life; you're happy," Porthos said, taking a mouthful of his own coffee.

"Hmm."

"She's not worth it, Athos. And what about Nkosi?"

"Nkosi knows about Anne, obviously," Athos sighed, before closing his eyes and resting his head back against the cushions. "But not everything."

They all knew more about Anne and Thomas, thanks not to Athos being open with them, but to his delirium after they had rescued him from the cave where he had been trapped. Treville had warned them at the time that not everything he was raving about was true, but they had got the gist of it. Nkosi, in particular had listened to more that her fair share of his dreams and ravings.

"Anne is still my wife. I never divorced her," Athos finally said.

It took Porthos a moment to process what he had just heard.

"Why the hell not, after what she did!" he finally growled angrily, slamming his mug on the table.

Athos flinched and stared up at the ceiling, both hands wrapped around the mug.

"It's not that simple," he murmured.

"Well, you might 'ave to tell her!" Porthos was saying.

Just then, Athos turned his head to respond to Porthos and saw Nkosi standing in the doorway. She had obviously spoken to d'Artagnan and had sought them out.

Porthos turned, following his gaze, and groaned.

Nkosi stared at Athos, speechless, before turning and rushing out.

Porthos just had time to grab his friend's mug before he could throw it at the wall.

 **To be continued ...**


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

 **Le Cafe Laurent, rue Dauphine, Paris**

"Monsieur," Anne de Brueil murmured as she slid into the booth at the rear of the bar.

It was a date that had been arranged when the black Mercedes had slowed to a halt outside the prison on the morning of her release. She had watched as the window slowly slid down and a hand passed her an envelope. Looking around her, she had cautiously flipped open a corner and saw it contained a healthy amount of money.

"You obviously want something," she had smirked. "But I'm not that kind of girl," she added, staring into the dark interior.

In response the door had opened. She had nothing to lose. Just released from prison, with only a vague notion of what she wanted to do with her life, the money was certainly attractive to her. She pulled open the door and slid onto the back seat, next to the man who did not look at her but leaned forward and simply tapped on the glass divide in signal for the driver to proceed.

She was dropped off at a small hotel on the other side of Paris. Before she alighted, the man handed her a card with the name of the bar on it, together with a date, five days hence, and a time.

That time was now and at least he was punctual.

"I understand I have you to thank for my release," she said, straightening her skirt. "I am sure you did not go to the trouble of forging DNA evidence for nothing."

She had called her barrister and had been advised of this new development. It had not phased her, and when Michelin Barout had suggested it would be in her interest to meet with the man, she had agreed. She had not liked the dull tone of Michelin's voice, but she was in no position to pass up the opportunity of a well-paying job and besides, she was curious.

A low key jazz trio played at one end of the room. For a moment, she was caught up in their performance, unused to the distraction after spending six years incarcerated in a prison not too far away from where she now sat.

"Drink?" he said, clicking his fingers at a passing waiter and drawing her attention back to him.

She raised an eyebrow at him but did not reply.

Understanding, he gave a low guttural laugh.

"You can call me … _Sergei_ ," he replied.

She was about to give him a sarcastic response about unimaginative stereotypes, when she thought better of it. He did not look as though he had a sense of humour. Just then, the waiter arrived and stood waiting for his order.

"Dry Martini," she replied, looking up at the young man and giving him one of her smiles. "One olive."

"And vodka," the man snapped at the waiter. "Bring the bottle."

The young man leant in front of her and carefully wiped the table.

 _Sergei_ waited until the waiter had gone, before he lit a cigarette.

She curled her lip in distaste, but he ignored her, instead offering her one from a silver cigarette case.

"I believe we can help each other, Madame," he said quietly. "We have a mutual acquaintance."

"Who might that be?" she said, finally reaching for a cigarette and placing it between her own lips.

"Athos de la Fere," he said, watching her as he lit the cigarette with a gold lighter.

He noted how her red lips tightened around the cigarette and he pushed the ashtray toward her. She reached over and stubbed it out angrily, blowing the residual smoke angrily into the air.

"What do you want with _him_?" she hissed.

"Not him, exactly. But we can discuss this at length over dinner," he said.

"I don't know where Athos is,"she said cautiously. "According to my barrister, he has made a new life for himself."

"Oh, I know _exactly_ where he is, Madame. And I am sure he will be pleased to see you."

She waved his smoke away and he finally stubbed it out in the ashtray, grinding it a little harshly, she thought.

"What do you want with him?" she asked again.

"Revenge, Madame. Pure and simple. Revenge."

She studied his features. He had a hard look, made threatening by close cropped hair and an accent she could not quite place.

The waiter reappeared with a tray and they both remained silent until he had departed once more.

"Well," she said, reaching for her Martini and sitting back. "I have reason to see him again."

She swirled the olive for a few moments, before fixing him with a hard look.

"What's in it for me?" she asked.

oOo

Porthos had taken their coffee mugs across to the sink, turning at the sound of movement behind him and the sight of Athos heading unsteadily through the door, obviously with the intention of going after Nkosi.

Porthos caught up with him quickly before he could leave the building. He pulled Athos back inside and shut the door.

"Leave her," Porthos said quietly as he pushed Athos into the wall. "You're drunk. It won't end well."

"I have to," Athos moaned, trying to free himself from Porthos's firm hold on his arm.

"In the mornin'," Porthos replied, pulling him back into the kitchen.

Athos had given in, worn out by his emotions and the revelation that he could no longer confine Anne to the far reaches of his mind. She was no longer imprisoned, but free to do as she pleased, and go where she wanted.

Porthos had led him back to his own room and gently sat him on the bed.

"I know this all looks 'orrible right now, my friend," Porthos murmured as he started to pull his friend's boots off, "but sleep it off, an' you can work out what you want to say to her in the mornin'."

"What _can_ I say?" Athos said, defeated.

Unbalanced as Porthos yanked his left boot off, he fell back against his pillows and looked mournfully up at him, "What can I say?" he repeated. "There is no defence for not telling her about Anne and me."

Porthos smiled. "Anne and I," he corrected, quietly, before pulling at his other boot.

Athos frowned at him in confusion.

"Your grammar goes to shit when you're drunk," Porthos explained. "You'd be no good tryin' to argue your case in this state."

Athos sighed, his breath shuddering out of him.

"When did you get so wise?" he murmured. He then patted Porthos's hand, which made Porthos laugh out loud.

"Practise, brother," he growled, happy at least to see Athos was too tired to continue with his quest.

A few minutes later, Athos's eyes slipped shut and he was asleep. Porthos gently turned him on his side, pulled a sheet over him and flipped on the lamp, before switching off the main light and leaving; closing the door softly behind him.

oOo

In the morning, Athos cracked opened his eyes to find a glass of water and packet of tablets on his table. A note from Aramis told him to go to the kitchen where he would find a d'Herblay concoction that would help with his hangover. Athos managed to smile as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and pulled himself up.

He dared not disobey their physician, especially since he really needed his "cure," and so, after he had changed out of yesterday's now-crumpled clothes and swallowed two of the tablets, he took a cold shower and then made his way cautiously to the kitchen.

d'Artagnan was there, sitting in an armchair with his long legs slung over one arm, reading an article in a magazine. On seeing Athos, he pointed to the counter, where Aramis had left a jug of red liquid.

"Down in one he said," d'Artagnan informed him; receiving a glare in response.

He held up both hands in surrender; "Don't shoot the messenger. Doctor's orders, nothing to do with me."

"I know, I got his note," Athos grumbled, though he made his way to the counter where he eyed the liquid suspiciously.

"Do I even want to know?" he muttered.

"Doubt it. Took him half an hour to make it," d'Artagnan replied. "Enjoy," he added as he rolled his magazine and he walked past, tapping Athos on the shoulder with the magazine, which made him wince.

Drinking it certainly helped him get his thoughts in order. By the time the jug was empty, he felt a little better and went out to one of the trucks to make the short drive to the hotel, where he knew he would find Nkosi.

On the drive, he ran the last twenty four hours through his mind. How had his life turned so sharply that he was now, for the first time since he met her, not looking forward to seeing Nkosi; aware that he may not have the words to make this right? They had not had a cross word since they met. In fact, they seemed to be attuned to each other almost at once and the last year, mainly, had been a joy. The sight of her fleeing him last night had broken something inside him. It had brought back the crisis of confidence that he seen him withdrawing after Anne had shattered him. But Nkosi was not Anne, and he was a different man now, mainly because of Heshima, and her.

The African landscape he loved slipped by unseen and soon, the hotel came into view, and he parked the truck and went in search of her.

He eventually found her at the rear of the hotel, sitting in the shade under one of the acacia trees on the edge of the plot. She held herself straight, her shoulders tense as she twisted a piece of long grass in her slender fingers.

Even upset, she looked beautiful; her thick black hair drawn back but still spilling down her back. She was wearing traditional Tswana clothing, which she always did when on duty in the hotel. He saw she had slipped her feet out of her leather sandals.

Sensing his approach, she turned her head, and his heart twisted.

She watched him approach and rose gracefully to her feet, deftly slipping on her sandals. He managed a half-hearted smile but her first words made his heart sink.

"You still have feelings for her."

Athos did not speak.

He looked at her and her breath caught at the look in his eyes.

It was his eyes she had first noticed on that first day when Treville introduced them in his office.

"No," he said, very quietly.

"Then why did you not divorce her? It has been six years!"

"I don't know," he said, looking past her.

"Of course you do _Rafiki yangu,"_ she said softly.

 _My friend_ , not " _my love_ " as she had called him before, he realised.

"You still love her," she said, moving behind him.

He turned and reached for her, but she took a step back.

"No, not _love,_ " he said, his voice hitching. "How could I forget what she said, or what she did?"

"You are her husband still!" Nkosi persisted angrily, her pupils large, eyes swimming now.

He had nothing to say. No words that would seem anything but excuses. Bland; banal. When this woman was everything to him.

As she walked away, he had a stark thought;

Would he ever hear her laugh again?

 **To be continued …**

oOo


	5. Chapter 5

Nkosi needs some advice.

While, elsewhere ...

 **CHAPTER FIVE**

 **Heshima:**

After his meeting with Nkosi, Athos had driven away from the hotel and tried to lose himself in his duties. Eventually, with a burgeoning headache, he found himself near the tree house he had erected on the edge of the Delta, when they first constructed the Garrison. Climbing the steps now built into the tree trunk, he flipped the trapdoor and pulled himself up onto the wooden walkway, where he leaned again the railings and stared down onto the lagoons.

On the day he found out that his wife had murdered his brother, it had been a normal day. A visit to his university office from a senior police officer had brought that day and his way of life to a close.

It felt as if his life had stopped, along with his heart.

He did not remember much of that day. A doctor had been called and he had been driven home. Later, he was driven to the Paris morgue to identify his brother. He could not remember the rest of that day.

Nor the days that followed.

He feared he would lose his mind as he had lost his brother and his wife.

Then, the ordeal of the trial and her face. Her eyes. Her lips.

After she had been imprisoned, he had isolated himself from their friends and his colleagues.

Treville's letter of condolence had been briefly read and put into his drawer, where it remained.

He had slowly begun to put himself back together for the sake of his students, but it was a half-hearted job and he did not succeed exactly, although they seemed to have enjoyed his lectures. He had always been passionate on his subject, but perhaps he would never be the man he was.

He had given Anne everything, only to be doubly betrayed. They had taken his heart, his self respect, his worth. Could he have been that short-sighted? That is what had burned him the most. He had unpicked the minutiae of their relationship. And then, he had unpicked the minutiae of himself. What remained had been a shell. Within that shell, there was anger, which, together with his drinking, needed to be tempered. At least he recognised that.

The day that Treville's second letter came offering him a new opportunity was a beacon in his dark world and he had lost no time in resigning from his university post and heading to Africa while he could still summon what was left of himself into a functioning human being. _Almost_ functioning. He had joined Treville's blue-helmeted peace-keeping force and started again.

Treville had his back and Africa had re-awakened his passion of anthropology. Instead of going through the motions in the confines of the University, he was now living and breathing the various populations of South Africa. He had even formed an unlikely friendship with Porthos, who became his brother. When Treville took his retirement from the Army, he took Athos and Porthos on a wild adventure to purchase land in Botswana. Treville had been his lifeline and then he had offered them both something beyond their imagination.

Their dreams had come to fruition and now he had two more brothers; Aramis and d'Artagnan.

All had gone well, until Yaroslav Krupin and Guy de Rochefort had emerged to threaten those dreams, and their very lives. Against all odds, they had fought off their Russian attackers and saved their new venture and their bond was strengthened even more.

He had dared then, to allow Nkosi into his life, little by little. Ever wary, he had let her slip quietly beneath his skin and re-energise him. She had been beside him as he recovered from his injury and the potential threat from the bite of a jackal when they all thought they might lose him. Now, his days were not complete without her.

He had been happy.

Until the blow that was _Anne_ felled him once more;

But not as completely as the last time. The look on Nkosi's face had done that.

Releasing his grip on the railing, Athos dropped his head down and sank to his knees.

Once more, he only had himself to blame.

oOo

 **The Tswana Village:**

After leaving Athos outside the hotel, Nkosi had packed a bag and driven into her village in floods of angry tears. It was unusual for her to drive, she usually rode her horse and so at the sound of the truck, two of her brothers emerged.

Nkosi was angry and sad. She desperately wanted to speak to Nyack, her father. She thought he was the wisest man she had ever met. He would be in his own home now, but as she watched her brothers approach, she relaxed at the familiarity of her family, a balm to her soul, when her world had suddenly fractured as the man she loved had so upset her.

Oba Seko was Nyack's oldest son. He was a proud full blooded Tswana, who loved his father and his people. He loved the land and he loved his brothers. Finally, he loved his sister, Nkosi. He smiled a broad smile as he approached and she quickly hid her emotions and returned his smile, although it was muted.

Oba was the same height as Porthos but he was lean and his skin was darker. He had his father's impressive eyes. He was slow to judge and in that time, he took measure. If he liked you, then it was fine. If not, you were of no consequence to him and he went about his life as if you did not exist. It gave him a strength and a calmness.

Oba would eventually take over from his father and he was the epitome of an elder. He was fair, yet commanding. He had taken his time in assessing Athos, but she had watched as a mutual respect had developed between the two men. Once he had Athos's measure, he was genial and he had extended the hand of friendship to him.

Seeing how his father had formed a good relationship with Athos so quickly had helped, but Oba was not his father, and he formed his own opinions.

Tabansi, the middle brother, had a lightness about him. He did not have the mantle of leadership to contend with, as his brother, Oba, did. He was shorter in stature and wore his hair longer. He was strong and sure-footed, a natural athlete. He was also a natural horseman and often accompanied Athos and Porthos when they took the horses to look over the herds, or on safari's. Tourists loved him. He spoke the dialects of several local tribes, which was useful to the Heshima team.

Her third brother, Rach, did not accompany Oba and Tabansi today. He was Nyack's youngest son. He had been upset and quick to temper by his sister's interest in the European, Athos de la Fere. After the attack on the Garrison last year, they learned that he had held such feelings of resentment, which had forced him onto the wrong path, and into Krupin's paid lackey Guy de Rochefort's acquaintance. It was Rach who had laid the snare that had caught Athos. It had not been his intention, and, though still forced to do Rochefort's bidding in setting up the attack on the Garrison, he could not condone what Rochefort was planning and he had gone to the Garrison to warn Athos. Rach's warning had given them vital time to prepare for Krupin's attack.

He was still atoning for his betrayal of his people, but he was gradually being taken back into the hearts of his own family. Apart from Nkosi, who still did not speak to him; blaming him for the injury that nearly took Athos's life.

Although Nkosi could not forgive her brother, Athos had pleaded his case; knowing what it was like to be taken in. Since then, his father, Nyack, had spent time with him, seeking to rehabilitate him and bring him back into their family.

Now, Nkosi walked over to meet Oba and Tabansi and they wrapped arms around each other, before Oba led them to Nyack's house in the heart of the village.

oOo

 **Paris:**

The gendarme stood patiently outside the apartment as the Concierge fitted one of her keys into the door of the apartment.

"I haven't seen Mademoiselle Barout for several days," the woman was saying. "It is most unusual. She leaves for her chambers at the same time every day."

The gendarme continued to wait as she turned the key. It was an old, renovated building but the apartments were much sought-after for the features that the architect had left untouched, the heavy oak panelled doors being one of them.

"She has not been to her chambers either, Madame," he replied. "Her colleagues have reported it to us as it is, as you say, unusual."

Finally, the key turned and she pushed the door open.

"Thank you, Madame," the policeman said. "You may go. I will find you before I leave."

He pushed past her but she hovered in the doorway behind him. He moved down the hall toward the lounge at the far end of the corridor and she found herself following him, drawn by the silence that enveloped them. And the strange smell.

At first the policeman blocked her view, as he had stopped just inside the door of the lounge. As he reached for his radio, she peered past him.

And screamed.

Michelin Barout was lying on the floor with her wrists bound and a plastic bag over her head.

She was quite dead.

 **To be continued ...**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Many thanks for reading and reviewing. It's Athos's turn for a little advice. And the plot thickens. Bit of a longer chapter today ...

oOo

 **CHAPTER SIX**

Athos knew someone would find him. His tree house was well known as his sanctuary but the revelation of Anne's release had been revealed to his friends and it was unlikely they would leave him alone for long.

He did not expect it to be Treville who sought him out. For once, he was glad he was not drunk as it was down to this man that he was able to function at all. He had given him a purpose and Athos knew that whatever happened, he would not return to those dark days. He drank to excess rarely now and never alone, but that did not mean he could not lose himself once in a while but he knew he had the support of four amazing friends who he called brothers. He included Treville in that.

"Jean," he said, looking up from his place sitting on the wooden walkway that snaked around the circular building. Treville approached quietly, saying nothing as he came to a halt and braced his hands on the railing, strung now with green creepers that bore bright orange flowers. The sun was slowly sinking, casting a red-gold shimmering glow across the lagoons below. In A few hours, it would be dark and the landscape would be transformed.

"It's beautiful up here. I don't come here often enough," he said quietly, lost in the vista.

"You can afford to relax a little now, Jean. We are doing well," Athos replied softly, before pulling himself to his feet. He did not move forward to stand next to his boss, choosing to lean back against the wall and stare down at his feet.

"Not so you," Treville stated, glancing over his shoulder.

Athos did not reply, but when he raised his head, Treville saw anguish in his eyes. He sighed, he had hoped never to see that look on his face again.

"You heard," Athos said, his voice barely audible.

"Nkosi asked for a few days off to spend with her family. She never asks for time off. So I dragged it out of Porthos," the older man smiled. "He's worried about you. We all are, son."

"I've been a damn fool,"Athos sighed, his head down, face hidden behind his hair.

His fingers strayed to the three leather bracelets he had worn on his wrist since Nkosi had presented them to him on Christmas Day. He stared at the three ocean-green stones intertwined on the central strap. " _To match your eyes_ ," she had said that day.

He covered it with his hand and looked at Treville.

"I was not honest with Nkosi. I did not tell her Anne and I are officially still married."

"You had other things on your mind," Treville said instantly, turning back to look at the horizon; affording Athos time to gather his thoughts.

"No excuse," Athos said. "I suppose I did not want to tempt fate. My relationships have not been too successful to say the least. I wanted to take it slow with Nkosi. Now, she will not speak to me. Nor look at me and I don't know what to do."

"Just give her time," Treville replied, turning and leaning back on the railing.

He folded his arms and waited for Athos to continue.

"I want to apologise," Athos finally said, "but I don't know if she will accept it."

Treville watched him for a few moments.

"Only Anne can drag you down this far, son. Of course Nkosi will accept it. Just speak plainly."

"She is so very proud," Athos murmured.

"Of course she is. That's why you love her," Treville said simply.

"I have never dared admit that," Athos said quietly, caught out by Treville's candour.

"We all see it, Athos. For once, perhaps Anne has done you a favour."

Athos huffed and shook his head.

"I doubt she is capable of ever doing anyone a favour. Least of all me."

"Your hand is forced now," Treville's replied. "You must decide what you want to do."

Treville suddenly unfolded his arms.

"Shape up, soldier, we have work to do," he said firmly, and Athos's shoulders instantly straightened at the command.

Athos smiled as he reached out and took Treville's offered hand. Treville clapped him on the shoulder and then turned and walked away back toward the ladder.

"Oh, and Athos?" he called over his shoulder.

"Sir?" Athos replied, reverting to his old Army second-in-command role instantly.

"You need a haircut."

Athos smiled.

"Yes, Jean," he said as his friend disappeared down the hatch.

His smile faltered when he remembered that it was Nkosi who had tended his hair of late. She had become Heshima's impromptu barber for all of them. Another one of her skills, he thought, as he joined Treville beneath the tree.

Treville had retrieved their horses from the protective cage Athos had built around the tree and was now busily checking girth straps, no doubt giving Athos time to gather himself. Athos thought once more how grateful he was to have this man in his life as he took the proffered reins, put his foot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle. With a quick tilt of their heads, they set off.

The hard ride back certainly blew the cobwebs away. Treville was a good horseman and they gave their horses a good workout.

Back at the Garrison, they were all pleased to see Athos safely return, including Musket, his deaf dog, who raised his head from the verandah at the sight of his master and wagged his tail enthusiastically. That simple greeting lifted Athos's spirits and he signalled for him to follow, taking him into the main Lodge. Musket had not been happy to be left behind that morning, but he jumped to his feet and followed Athos inside.

"You're getting lazy, Musket," Athos said, as he strode inside. Glancing back, he saw the dog was looking at him and he shook his head. He turned around and gave him a thumbs up. The dog wagged his tail once more. "We'll go for a run in the morning, that will perk you up," Athos smiled, before turning and leading the dog into the kitchen where he poured him some water.

Nkosi was nowhere to be seen. She did not appear in the Garrison for several days, preferring it seemed, when she did return, to remain in her work domain; the hotel, scene of their failed reconciliation.

Finally, after much persistence from Aramis, he drove over there; only to find it was her day off and she had returned once more to her village. Any confrontation would therefore be held on her territory. But he owed her that and could not put it off any longer.

He missed her.

oOo

Later, when Athos arrived in the Tswana village, as was becoming the norm, Nkosi was nowhere to be seen; but her vehicle was there. She clearly had the knack of avoiding him, he thought. At least it was better than the full-on rows he had endured with Anne. He parked his truck next to hers and walked further into her village under the wary gaze of her elder brother, Oba, who watched his approach from the doorway of his hut.

Thinking of Treville, Athos straightened his shoulders as he walked.

"Alright, de la Fere," he said to himself, "let's do this."

He watched as Oba came to meet him until finally they stopped in front of each other.

" _Siku njema_ , Oba," Athos said quietly, holding his gaze. (Good Day)

" _Siku njema_ , Athos."

Oba nodded once and turned, beckoning Athos to his own home on the edge of the village.

"She will not see you, Athos," Oba said, as they sat together on the rush mat. "I cannot help you."

"I understand," Athos said. "How is she?"

"She is very angry," Oba replied, before a small smile played on his lips. "The strength of her anger should tell you something."

"It tells me that I should have been straight with her," Athos sighed.

Oba hummed. "But also, that she cares," he said, kindly.

Just then, his father, Nyack appeared and settled himself down in a chair by the door, which Athos suspected had been placed there just for him in respect to his age.

" _Habari_ , Nyack," Athos said, watching the old man settle himself. It was the respectful Swahili greeting reserved for older people.

"Siku njema, Athos," the old man replied, smiling at the courtesy Athos had afforded him and holding out his hand to him. Athos reached up and took it gratefully.

Nyack was his friend, but he was Nkosi's father and Athos had been concerned that their fallout may affect their relationship. But, as with Oba, he was generous in his friendship.

Keeping hold of Athos's hand, Nyack leant forward.

"We have a saying, Athos."

Athos smiled briefly;

"I thought you might, old friend," he replied.

" _Mwenye kujitahidi hufala_ ," the old man said. ("The person who makes an effort will succeed.")

"You are saying ..." Athos responded, "...don't give up."

Nyack nodded sagely, before squinting down at him.

"We have another saying," he said, still leaning toward him;

" _Mwenye meno makali ndiye mmaliza yama."_ ("The person with sharp teeth is the one who finishes the meat.")

And then he burst out into a loud cackle at Athos's raised eyebrows and rose to his feet.

"All beginnings are difficult, Athos. My daughter has her mother's passion. A wise person will always find a way, because the wise build _bridges_ ; the foolish build dams."

"Then, I promise you, Nyack," Athos said, "That I will do all I can to build a bridge."

Nyack nodded to Athos and then to his eldest son before rising and walking slowly through the door with a regal wave of his hand.

There was no more to be said. Although he knew Nkosi was somewhere in her father's village; somewhere close by, he knew he would not see her, nor would he look for her. He would take Nyack's advice; no matter how long it took him, he would win her round. He would give her time, as Treville had advised.

He could not lose everything again.

oOo

Meanwhile, the man who Anne knew as "Sergei" was making a transatlantic phone call.

"Is this line secure?" he asked, as he stared out at the night sky from his hotel window.

"Yes," the accented voice on the other end replied. "How are you?" he sounded bored.

"Is McCauley engaged?" he asked, ignoring the question. This man was not a friend. He was his back-up plan.

"He will be, soon. He will be given a deadline that I am sure he will keep."

"Your money will be transferred to the usual account," he said, with no preliminaries.

"How _is_ Yaroslav?" the voice on the other line said. "Does he know what you are doing?"

"That is none of your business."

"Is he even aware that you are still alive, my friend?" the voice continued, the accent becoming more pronounced.

"As I said, thank you for your help."

"Anyway," the man continued, "What I need now is some sun. New York is not particularly warm at this time of year."

"We are even. I owe you nothing. But I may have another job for you and the climate will suit you."

There was no answer and the moment hung in the air. There was a low chuckle at the other end of the line. It made him shudder. He had never liked the man, but he had been useful in the past.

"My thanks," the man said. "I will wait to hear from you."

"Don't thank me. I never liked you. This suits me too."

"Oh, the feeling is mutual, my friend," came the reply, before the line when dead.

He sat back, tapping his hand on the arm of the chair while he breathed deeply to get the image of the man at the other end of the line out of his mind. The first part of his plan had been implemented.

He knew that he man was difficult to control, but he did have one more job for him. He may be a distraction for the Authorities, should the situation arise. But now there was the woman to consider. She would bring the disruption he needed. But she too would need careful handling.

A slow smile spread across his face.

Two days later, they made contact again. This time, face to face over their respective laptops.

"I want someone I can trust," he said, looking at the man in front of him.

"If you pay good money," the other said, "You can trust me."

"Very well. We have two targets. One I want alive, the other, not. I'll email you a plane ticket and contact you in two days with instructions as to where we will meet."

"What is the destination?"

"Botswana."

He went to flip down the lid of his laptop and cut the call, but a loose end still waved in front of him.

"What about McCauley?" he asked.

"He will soon know what is expected of him. He will know I know where he lives and where he works. And he will have his deadline."

"Very well. Don't leave him dangling too long," the man said, and cut the call.

Across the ocean, the other man smiled, his black eyes glinting;

"I never do."

 **To be continued ...**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N** \- Many thanks for reading and reviewing and to **Justaguest,** **Guest** and **Amy** who I cannot thank personally. Much appreciated.

 **CHAPTER SEVEN**

 **New York City**

Robert McCauley had been a firm supporter of Jean Treville and his enterprise. He had been a member of the Board since the beginning. The only problem was, he had personal problems and was a prime candidate for blackmail.

The blackmailer visited him as he put the key in his front door.

"What do you want?" McCauley had said as he backed into the bougainvillea around his doorway.

The man crowding him wore a black knitted cap, pulled low over his forehead. His eyes were black, the lids hooded and he had the skin-tone and features that suggested Middle-Eastern origin.

McCauley wracked his brain for any clue as to why such a man would be threatening him on his own property.

In response, the man simply reached out his hand and grabbed his jacket lapel, pushing him through his door. He held a semi automatic in the other hand. Shoving him into the kitchen, the man walked calmly to the sink and poured himself a glass of water. He took out a small bottle from his pocket and flipped the lid with his thumb. Tipping a few of the small white pills down his throat, he swallowed a mouthful of water, before placing the glass carefully next to the sink and turning around.

"Please," he said in an accent that confirmed he was Middle Eastern. "Sit."

McCauley reached out absently and pulled a tall stool toward him from the island and sat carefully down, staring at the strange man in front of him.

"Robert, you are a man of the world, I understand that. I also understand the pressure a man such as yourself can find himself in when his marriage breaks up. The bills, the alimony, etc. etc."

Fear was twisting McCauley's gut, but he continued to watch the man as he spoke, committing his mannerisms and voice to his memory.

"Let us have a little talk about your debts," the man was saying. "I think you will like the proposition I am about to make you."

McCauley continued to stare at the man, before his eyes fell to the gun, which the man put carefully and quietly on the black granite worktop.

"Tell me, where is your wife at the moment?"

McCauley licked his lips.

"At her sister's, while I make arrangements to sell the house," he muttered.

"It's a very nice house," the man said, looking around the kitchen. "Pity. I presume it will not cover your debts. Gambling, I believe. Poker, in particular. Tut tut."

"How do you know that?!" McCauley asked, sweating now.

"It does not matter. What matters is you do not have a hope in hell of clearing your debts. Your wife has no idea she, and your ... _four_ children is it? will soon be homeless. How _do_ you sleep at night?"

"What do you want?" McCauley asked, his eyes wide as he looked at the sinister man in front of him.

"Information, Robert. That is all. Once I have it, your debts will be paid. You can start again. Alone, granted, but at least your children will be cared for; and your wife, if you are concerned about her. I find those who divorce soon lose interest in maintaining good relations, once the lawyers are called in."

Robert McCauley reached into his jacket for a handkerchief, which he wiped over his face.

The man smiled.

"Heshima," he said. "I want information on the mineral surveillance report that was _buried_ last year, for I know that it what happened."

"I don't have access to that!" McCauley said, becoming desperate now that his redemption was slipping away.

"No," the man said, patiently, "of course you don't. But Treville's backers do."

McCauley stared at him, his mouth open.

"I want evidence that the report was amended."

"I know nothing about that!"

"I have no doubt you are telling me the truth Robert, but you will have to do a little leg work, in order to fulfil your side of our bargain.

"If not, I promise you, you will not be paid. And I may just have to kill you. And your wife. And your children."

"How do I know you will do as you say?" McCauley asked.

The man stood.

Whatever he had taken, his pupils were dilated, and McCauley wanted nothing but to get him out of the house.

"Do you have a better offer?" the man smiled and stared at him, his mouth twisted into a vicious sneer.

"Alright," McCauley said, defeated. "What exactly, do you want from me?"

Just then, the phone started to ring in the hall and McCauley jumped to his feet.

"Not here," he whispered urgently. "Come to my office tomorrow, it's …. "

"I know where it is," the man smiled. "Very well. Tomorrow, my friend. We will have a little talk. After all, you have nothing to lose, do you? Apart from the lives of your family of course. Until tomorrow."

The man picked up his weapon and slipped it into his pocket, giving it a pat. He reached over and picked out an apple from a bowl on the counter top and bit into it, before slowly turning and walking from the room. Only when the front door clicked shut, did McCauley let out a long shuddering breath.

He was left in no doubt that the man was capable of delivering on his promise.

Whoever was trying to call him had given up and the house was now silent.

Walking unsteadily into the hall and making sure the man had gone, McCauley locked the door behind and turned, breathing heavily. Returning to the kitchen, his eyes fell on the counter top, and on the empty bottle of pills the man had left there.

oOo

Treville smiled as he heard the familiar footsteps on the stairs outside which led to his office. After his initial set back, Athos had pulled himself together and seemed to be throwing himself into his work once more. Whether that was the true picture, he did not know, but he had sent for him this morning and he had responded on time.

"Athos." Treville said, when his Head Ranger entered the office, getting straight down to business.

"We have a Ukranian minister arriving today who will be staying with us for a few days. His Government is setting up a banking facility in Johannesburg and he would like to see the Delta before he leaves. His female companion is joining him in a day or so and is booked into the Hotel. They will then return home together, apparently."

The Delta was on the UNESCO list of heritage sites and lately Athos had escorted several dignatories on flights over the lagoons and into the fringes of the Kalahari desert that surrounded Botswana.

"Aramis is still at his medical conference in Lille so I'd like you, Porthos and d'Artagnan to look after him. He's expressed an interest in taking an air tour of the Delta; the usual thing," Treville said.

They each had their area of expertise and often gave their time to showing visitors the facilities, often over-lapping if their time allowed.

"Very well," Athos said, sitting in the seat Treville waved him to. "Porthos is not keen on flying, so if you wish, he can show him the reserve by truck and d'Artagnan and I can take him up in the Cessna and show him the herds. d'Artagnan, I am sure, would love to explain his breeding programmes and answer any questions that may arise."

Treville watched Athos as his voice dropped and he stared at the desk.

"I'm sorry, Athos, I know your mind is elsewhere," he said, cautiously. "Unfortunately, you're our only pilot at the moment. We really need to think about putting one of the others through their pilot training."

Athos's eyes snapped up and held Treville's.

"It's fine, Jean. It's my job and I am happy to do it. If Porthos learns to fly, perhaps he will grow to like it," he added with a slight smirk.

Treville huffed out a laugh.

"Somehow I can't see it. d'Artagnan perhaps. But I am happy to be proved wrong."

"Me too," Athos said. "Book the Minister in, at his convenience. I'll speak to d'Artagnan about accompanying us."

With that he stood up.

"We cannot turn a Minister down. They are influential people and good for business," he said, before giving Treville a nod and heading for the door.

Treville listened as his Ranger's footsteps receded. This would at least keep his thoughts away from his wife for a little while, which could only be a good thing. It would also give Nkosi space, which was probably good for her, if not for him. The sooner this was sorted out, the better. Sometimes, he was grateful he was unencumbered by complicated relationships.

He turned to his computer screen and was soon lost in the business of the day.

 **To be continued ...**


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

d'Artagnan, their resident veterinary surgeon, was more than willing to accompany Athos and the Minister on their trip. They had camping gear permanently stored in the Cessna and a few days away from his lab suited him. He'd been tussling with a problem with a sick cheetah for a week and had finally pulled the animal through. As a consequence, he had decided to look into the possibility of gene therapy if he ever encountered the same problem again and had therefore spent the last few nights searching research papers on-line.

His friendship with Athos had been a slow-burn affair and at first he did not know if they would actually get along. Athos, it had seemed at the time, was a still-waters-run-deep kind of man, but had a heart of gold; discovered when Porthos had explained how he had rescued his deaf dog, Musket, from a dog fighting ring in one of the local townships. They had become firm friends, and had fought side by side during the assault on the Garrison. Musket would not be accompanying them this trip, in deference to the Minister.

Athos had the truck's engine running when d'Artagnan came out of his lab with his backpack. Sliding into the passenger seat, he clipped in the seatbelt before Athos could admonish him, and they set off.

"Aren't we picking the Minister up from the hotel?" he asked as Athos headed straight to the airport.

"No, I believe he will be meeting us at the plane. He has had word that his companion is arriving later and he wanted to leave her a message, according to Nkosi," he said, before adding, a little sadly, "who told Porthos."

Things were still strained between Athos and Nkosi, and she was evidently keeping her distance.

" _Her_?" d'Artagnan asked, intent on a little mischief.

Athos side-glanced him but his expression remained blank.

"Yes, _her_. What of it?"

"Nothing," d'Artagnan smiled.

"You are getting as bad as Aramis. The Minister has a female travelling companion. It's none of our business," Athos muttered, as he began his pre-flight checks.

"Stow your stuff and fill in the flight book will you?" he said and d'Artagnan dropped his backpack behind the rear seats and walked across to the desk to sign out the aircraft and give a report of their intended journey, although their return would be open-ended and depended on the Minister.

"He's late," d'Artagnan said as he climbed into the cockpit next to Athos.

"He's here now," Athos said, as a black car appeared at the end of the runway.

Athos taxied out and waited while the man drove into the small hangar and stepped outside. He only had a small holdall and he pulled out a jacket as he walked quickly across to the plane. He pulled the rear door open and slid into the seat behind Athos.

After very little small talk, the man took out his phone and became engrossed.

"We will be heading south, Minister, over the Delta and out onto the plain, where d'Artagnan will give you an update on our herds and the conservation work we are doing."

"Excellent," the man grunted, without looking up.

d'Artagnan risked a sideways look at Athos, who gave a barely perceptive shrug. The less conversation the better, as far as he was concerned. If the man suddenly became loquacious, d'Artagnan could handle it.

With that, the aircraft picked up speed and took to the air.

oOo

Later that day, Porthos set off on the drive to the same airport to collect Aramis, incoming from Lille following his medical conference.

On time, he parked up and waited for the small aircraft to come into view. In the meantime, he pulled out the book on his favourite motor cycles that had arrived the day before and began leafing through the colour plates, his heart racing a little bit at the beautiful machines on display.

All too soon, he had to close the book as the drone of the twin engines could be heard. He put the book carefully on the back seat and watched as the small plane dropped in height from a clear blue sky and made a perfect landing on the runway, before taxiing to the end and turning around, ready to take off back again as soon as the four passengers had disembarked.

Porthos watched as three people alighted and dispersing into one vehicle that awaited them.

Porthos jumped out of his truck and crossed the tarmac once Aramis exited the aircraft, giving Porthos a bright smile. Out of habit, Porthos reached in and took Aramis's bag, before the pilot taxied back along the runway and took off once more.

"Welcome 'ome," Porthos said, slapping Aramis on the shoulder.

"Thank you, my friend. It's good to be back. As much as I love France, I really did miss this place," Aramis replied, taking in a breath of warm air. "It makes you feel alive," he added, throwing his head back and closing his eyes, allowing the hot sun bathe his face. He flipped his jacket over his shoulder and pushed his sunglasses up on his tousled hair. Together they walked the short distance back to Porthos's truck. On the way, he glanced into the hangar.

"Where's Athos heading?" Aramis asked, when he noticed their Cessna was not in its usual place in the hangar. Athos was their only pilot, so it could not have been taken out by anyone else from Heshima.

"Him and d'Artagnan have taken a Ukranian Minister out on a trip. He arrived yesterday."

That also explained the black vehicle that was parked next to the Cessna's usual bay.

"Why d'Artagnan?" Aramis asked as they walked back to Porthos's truck.

"He asked to see the lay of the land and I don't think Athos has been in the mood to engage lately," Porthos shrugged.

"No, well that's understandable," Aramis replied. "At least he is keeping busy."

"Yeah, I said we'd all go into Maun for a drink and a bit of r and r when they get back. Everyone's been workin' hard lately," Porthos said, looking over at Aramis. "Hope you're not too tired from your conference; thought we could go out tonight?" he added, throwing the bag into the rear of the truck. "Those two ain't been too much fun lately."

"God, yes!" Aramis laughed. "Three hours of "Innovations in Micro-surgery," and I could drink a bar dry."

"That bad?"

"Boring, but necessary," Aramis replied with one of his bright smiles. "An important part of keeping abreast of new developments."

"Is that all you kept "abreast" of," Porthos asked.

"Well," Aramis smiled innocently, "I had one of two distractions of my own."

Porthos clapped him on the shoulder; "I've missed you, Brother," he laughed as he slid into the driver's seat.

Aramis slipped his sunglasses in place and joined him in the vehicle.

"I imagine our friends will be glad to drop the Minister off by the time they're finished," he laughed.

"The Minister's lady-friend is at the hotel," Porthos informed him, as he fired up the engine.

"What's she like – young and politically star-struck?"

"Trust you," Porthos said, as he rammed the gear stick into first gear, "Haven't seen 'er. No doubt we'll meet her when they get back."

"I'll look forward to it," Aramis replied, settling back.

"Even if she's sixty five and wears tweed?"

Aramis raised an eyebrow behind his dark glasses.

"Even then," he smiled, sincerely, his hand on his heart.

Porthos laughed and passed him a bottle of water.

"So, tell me about this conference," he said as they swung onto the sandy track that would lead them out on to the savannah and onward to the Garrison.

"Porthos, please; I'm much too hungry. Step on it. I've been dreaming of one of your omelettes since breakfast."

oOo

 **Meanwhile in the Tswana village:**

Oba sat patiently with his sister, as she poured out her anger and sadness.

"Athos is a good man, Nkosi," he finally said. "He saved your life, remember. Even though you did not appreciate it at the time."

Oba had reminded Nkosi of the attack on the Garrison when Athos had pushed her into the bathroom in his room to avoid the roaming gunman.

Nkosi bit her bottom lip and looked away from Oba, remembering that dreadful day, when she thought they would all die.

"What is it he is _really_ guilty of, sister?" Oba asked quietly.

When she did not reply, he reached out and laid a hand on her ankle.

"Nkosi?"

She raised her head defiantly and he was reminded that for all her gentleness, there was a fierce stubborness in his sister's character.

"He did not tell me the truth!" she replied.

"Did he _lie_?" Oba asked her softly.

She hesistated.

"No. But ... he is still _married_ , Oba!"

"And that is not fair," her brother replied.

"No!" she spluttered.

"Ah. Because _you_ want to marry him."

"No!" she cried again, her eyes wide.

He waited. His young sibling deflated a little.

"Maybe; oh, I don't know!"

"And if you were to lose him because of your stubbornness?"

She suddenly had an image of her and Athos together, last Christmas, when they exchanged gifts, much to the delight of the villagers who surrounded them. Each gift had been perfect, as if they knew each other so well. He was so handsome, her stomach did a somersault every time she saw him. He had beautiful eyes, and a beautiful voice … She looked up and saw Oba watching her with a smile, as though he could read her thoughts.

"If I were to lose him," she whispered, "I could not bear it."

She brought her hand to her mouth and stared at him.

"Oh, what have I done, Oba? ... I may never get a chance to tell him."

"Tell him _what_ , exactly, _dada_ (sister)?" Oba pressed.

"That I care for him."

Oba waited still, holding her gaze.

"Nkosi …? he said softly.

"That … I love him," she replied, her voice breaking.

No sooner were the words out of her mouth, than she fell into her brother's arms and sobbed.

 **To be continued ...**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Happy Christmas, one and all, on this Christmas Eve afternoon! May all your dreams and wishes come true.

Time to find out who Heshima's adversary is ...

oOo

 **CHAPTER NINE**

After speaking with her eldest brother, Nkosi arrived back at the Garrison just after Porthos and Aramis. When they told her Athos had gone on a trip, she felt sad, but a hug from Porthos had cheered her and she headed back to the hotel to see to her guests. Her staff were excellent, but she liked to be fully involved. The Minister's travelling companion had been due to arrive and it would be getting dark in a few hours. She wanted to supervise dinner and ensure the lady was comfortable. She would enquire if she would like to see the Reserve tomorrow. She may dislike flying, but Porthos ran an excellent safari and could show her the lagoons, which were beautiful at this time of year; teeming with wildlife and colourful flowers and shrubs.

Meanwhile, Aramis dropped his bags off in his room and took a welcomed cool shower. Later, he walked into the kitchen to find Porthos making himself an omelette. Seeing his friend, Porthos automatically took out another half dozen eggs from the fridge and Aramis nodded his appreciation, before sinking down onto one of the sofas and putting his feet up on the low table and promptly falling asleep.

A brief shake a little later woke him, and Porthos pointed at the table, where his food sat. He jumped up and made short work of his omelette. Porthos was putting the coffee on when Nkosi arrived.

"Back so soon?" Aramis said, before frowning at the look on her face.

"What is it, Cheri. You look worried." Aramis asked.

He knew Nkosi and Athos had not seen each other since they had fallen out over his wife's release. Although Aramis suspected that it was Nkosi who was avoiding Athos, she seemed sad to have missed him earlier, and he had hoped that things were looking up.

Nkosi passed him the passport she had in her hand.

Aramis frowned as he took it, opening it automatically onto the page with the photograph. Shaking his head in confusion, he looked up at her.

"There is a problem? You should perhaps speak to Treville."

"It's both of you I wanted to speak to. _Don't you recognise him_?" she asked plaintively, looked at Aramis intently.

Aramis looked harder. Porthos came across and looked over his shoulder.

Both men shrugged.

"Fedir Olek Barabash. Forty nine years old," Aramis read out, "grey hair, brown eyes, moustache and beard. No distinguishing marks. In fact, an unremarkable middle-aged man. You have me stumped."

Porthos shook his head. "Me too," he added, remembering his pan and hurrying back to the hob.

"Imagine him with dark hair and no beard," Nkosi prompted urgently.

Aramis looked again.

She stamped her foot;

"And an automatic rifle in his hand!"

When neither man spoke, she became even more exasperated.

"Speaking Russian and pushing Rochefort into the animal facility ... to his death!"

Aramis instantly tensed and looked sharply at Porthos.

"We three _saw_ him," Nkosi said. "You, Aramis, from the Garrison tree-house, and Porthos and I from the yard."

"Koslov?" Aramis said, as he exchanged an incredulour look with Porthos.

"Athos and d'Artagnan were pinned down in the Lodge, so they didn't get a close look at him. But I will never forget that man," she said, angrily.

"My God," Aramis said quietly, sitting forward. "He's still alive."

Porthos came across and snatched the passport from his hand.

"This is the man who Athos and d'Artagnan have taken up in the plane?" he asked Nkosi.

"I believe so, but I needed you both to see and agree," she replied.

"Almost certainly," Aramis said. "Koslov," Porthos growled.

Nkosi sat down suddenly on the sofa;

"What are we going to do?"

oOo

What they did, of course, was take it straight to Treville.

"Trouble, Cap.," Porthos said, as he, Aramis and Nkosi barged into his office and appraised him of their suspicions. Treville stared at them, before waving Aramis to close the door.

"You're sure?" he asked, his voice a bare whisper. "Barabash is _Koslov_?"

Treville had not been there on the day of the attack. He had not had the pleasure of seeing Koslov at work, only of picking up the pieces and rebuilding.

"Absolutely sure," Aramis replied. "I had that man in my sights on that day, before they started machine-gunning the Lodge and he got away. I had hoped he'd died in the fire fight. Half the Russians could not be identified, they had no paper trail to follow."

"We 'ave to warn Athos," Porthos said, standing over Treville's desk, as his boss was busy sending a copy of the passport photo to his contact in Europol. The same man had identified Rochefort as a petty thief and was well versed on what had occurred at Heshima.

While they waiting for a response, they discussed what they should do.

"How do we warn Athos without alerting Koslov?" Aramis countered.

"And what does Koslov want?" Treville grunted.

"We know that!" Porthos shouted. "He's back to finish what he and Yaroslav Krupin started."

"We have the advantage of knowing his identity," Treville replied. "When they return, we will be waiting."

"What about the woman?" Aramis remembered.

"What woman?" Treville replied.

"Nkosi said he was expecting a woman to join him later at the hotel," Aramis replied. "So at least we know he's coming back."

"Ah, yes of course," Treville replied, remembering. "As I say," he added. "We will be waiting. We _can_ nip this in the bud, gentlemen."

Porthos grunted, catching Aramis's eye. They shared equally appalling memories of this man.

"Apparently, the lady was in the bar when Nkosi left," Aramis smiled.

Porthos smiled. "I'm suddenly very thirsty," he said, looking at Aramis. "You said you could drink a bar dry."

Treville looked at them, before catching on.

"So why not plough your money into our own bar and help increase profits," he said. "Find out what you can. She may be ignorant of his intentions, but on the other hand, she may be very helpful."

"You're on," Porthos said, though his expression betrayed how concerned he was that this man had re-emerged after he and Rochefort had caused so much trouble for them. Fortunately, Rochefort was dead, but this man was far more deadly that the small time French crook had ever been.

Nkosi had been silent in the corner of Treville's office. The fears she had spoken to her brother, Oba, were ringing in her ears.

Aramis turned to her now that a plan was forming.

"Don't worry, Cheri," he said softly, seeing how her eyes shone with unshed tears, now that her anger had dissipated. "We are one step ahead of him. It will be fine."

But the atmosphere in the office was far from light, despite their attempts to be positive.

oOo

The woman in the bar was beautiful.

She was sitting on one of the high-backed stools with what looked like a martini in her hand, lost in thought.

Aramis smiled at Porthos.

"Leave this to me, my friend," he said in a hushed tone, and Porthos grunted in response and raised his eyes to the heavens.

"I am Aramis, Madame, the Garrison Physician," Aramis said, genially, as he strolled over to her.

"And this is Porthos, our Second Ranger. Our Head Ranger and our Veterinary Surgeon are, as you know, escorting your partner on a tour of our Reserve."

Aramis extended his hand.

She smiled, showing a charming gap between her two front teeth, and accepted it. He fell short of raising it to his lips but still executed a perfect bow. Her green eyes took him in and she then looked at Porthos, who looked decidedly uncomfortable with his friend's antics.

"So," she purred. "You are Aramis and Porthos. I've heard a lot about you."

Aramis's smile faltered. Koslov had obviously mentioned them, but they did not know how much she was involved in whatever his plan was.

"You have us at a disadvantage, Madame Barabash?"

"The Minister and I are not married, nor are we partners. I am merely his travelling companion," she replied haughtily. "Though I did so want to see Heshima after he told me about it," she added; holding his gaze.

"You 'aven't told us your name," Porthos said, his voice low.

"Anne," she replied instantly. "Anne de Brueil."

She watched as the name clicked; taking pleasure in catching them off balance.

"Anne ..." Aramis began …

"Athos's wife," Porthos finished, his voice taking on a dangerous edge.

Aramis released her hand as if it was on fire and stared at her.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she murmured in an amused tone, taking a delicate sip of her drink.

"My apologies," Aramis replied, darkly. "I have never met a murderess before."

oOo

 **A short time later, in Treville's office:**

"Are you sure?!" Treville frowned, when they returned.

They had deposited Anne de Brueil in the lounge in the main lodge while they went to tell Treville who their second guest really was.

"She introduced herself as Athos's wife." Aramis replied. "And she had heard of Porthos and I. No doubt from Koslov."

"What the hell is she up to?" Treville muttered. Like them, he had never met Anne de Brueil and he was sure he didn't want to after what she had done to Athos. But she was here, as large as life, on their property.

"Better bring her up," he said, tersely.

oOo

Sitting across from Anne de Brueil, Treville could see why Athos would have been attracted to her. The woman was striking; even dressed down for her African adventure. There was an arrogance about her as she looked coolly at him from her seat across his desk and for a moment he was too stunned to speak.

He tossed the passport across at her.

"You know this man?"

"Sergei," she replied, her green eyes flicking up from the photograph. " _Know_ is a little strong, though," she added.

Treville looked across at Aramis, who was standing with his arms folded, glowering at the back of her head. Porthos, he knew, was a coiled spring. They all disliked this woman for what she had done to Athos, but Treville had to steer them all through this tangled web and so he sat back and tapped his fingers slowly on his desk.

"You are working with him?" Treville asked her.

"Well, he offered me a monetary incentive, or I wouldn't _be_ here," she sneered. "But I have yet to learn what the job actually entails," she added.

"You came all the way to Africa on a promise like that?!" Porthos growled, and Treville held up his hand.

Porthos grunted and turned away in disgust.

She sighed and ran a hand lightly over her skirt, as if brushing off dusk specks, along with their distain.

" _He_ approached _me_. He said he knew Athos."

"What did he want?" Treville continued.

She shrugged.

"Revenge," she said, as if it was the most normal word in the world.

Behind her, Porthos growled, and Treville shot him a glance, before he continued;

"Is that all he said?"

"He assumed I wanted it too," she replied, in a matter-of-fact voice, holding his gaze.

"He knew about you and Athos?" Aramis interjected.

She turned her head and looked back at him. And smirked.

"Doesn't everyone? " _University Academic's brother murdered by cheating wife?_ " It was in all the papers. Look on-line, you'll find it."

"We know all about it," Porthos hissed.

"Well then," she purred, turning back to Treville once more. "We're all on the same page."

She looked up and found Treville glowering at her.

"You know Athos is with Nkosi now?"

Her eyes dipped briefly to his desk.

"No, I didn't" she said, as her composure slipped a little.

"She's right for him, Anne," Aramis said, behind her. "Don't spoil it."

"I only wanted to see him," she said, lightly, back in control once more. "We have unfinished business."

"Leave him alone, Madame de Brueil," Treville said, his voice hard.

"Not a chance," she said, matching his tone with equal harshness.

 **To be continued ...**

oOo

Time for me to take a few days break, so I will resume later in the week.

Best wishes to you all :)


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** I hope you all had a lovely Christmas. The New Year is nearly upon us; a time of renewal and hope.

oOo

 **CHAPTER TEN**

"The Kalahari Desert," Athos was saying as he piloted the plane, "is a large semi-arid savannah of some 350,000 square miles covering much of Botswana, parts of Namibia and regions of South Africa. The name "Kalahari" comes from the Tswana word Kgala, meaning "the great thirst", or Kgalagadi, "a waterless place. Vast areas are covered by red sand without any permanent surface water. In addition to diamonds, deposits of nickel, copper and coal have been discovered within the Kalahari, though most of these remain undeveloped.

The Kalahari was not technically a _desert,"_ Athos was explaining to the silent passenger behind him _._ "There is too much rainfall for it to be categorised as such. It has a sub-humid climate, and is cooler than the Sahara. The average temperature of the warmest month is around 38 degrees in the Sahara, whereas it never exceeds 29 degrees in the Kalahari. Winter frost is common from June to August. Ancient dry riverbeds traverse the northern reaches and provide standing pools of water during the rainy season. The Okavango river was the only one permanent river that flows within the Kalahari."

It was along this river that Athos was now flying.

"Do shout out if you have any questions, Mr Barabash," Athos muttered.

The man was silent for a few moments and then he leant forward;

"I do have a question for your companion," he finally said, before turning his attention back to his phone.

d'Artagnan looked at Athos and shrugged, before turning in his seat.

"What would you like to know?" he said with a smile.

The man looked up and smiled back.

"I would like to know how you buried the surveillance report that showed a vast track of diamonds beneath "Heshima," he said. "I believe "Heshima" means "honour." That is ironic, is it not, _comrades_?"

He raised a gun and, keeping his eyes on d'Artagnan, he pointed it at the back of Athos's head.

"Put the plane down."

Athos quickly turned to look at d'Artagnan.

"He's got a gun," d'Artagnan said quietly.

"Well," Athos said. "That makes a difference."

However, he did nothing.

"Put the plane down," the man hissed.

Athos sighed.

"There is nowhere to land here."

"Don't take me for a fool," the man's voice was taking on an urgent, dangerous air.

The Minister told Athos to head east, off-plan. Athos checked the fuel situation. They had three quarters of a tank but he had no idea how far this man wanted to go.

"Why wait until we were in the air?" Athos replied, still making no move to do as he had been asked. "You could have attacked us on the ground, if that is what you intend."

"You are a soldier. I won't make the same mistake again."

"Again?" Athos replied. "Who are you? Have we met?"

He now began to bank the Cessna in the required direction.

"Don't you recognise me?" the man replied.

d'Artagnan turned and stared at him, but looked blank.

"My name is Afon Koslov and I had the pleasure of your acquaintance briefly last year. Quite a battle, while it lasted."

Athos and d'Artagnan looked at each other but said nothing, their minds whirling. They had been pinned down together in the main lodge during the attack on the compound and had not seen this man up close.

"If I land, there _are_ two of us," Athos said now, by way of reply.

"You think I don't have a way out?" Koslov laughed. "And I have an added advantage," he added, idly waving the gun.

Athos took a quick glance over his shoulder at the man now threatening them with an evil-looking firearm.

Prematurely grey hair. Neat moustache and goatee beard.

"You look different. You've aged in the last year," he said tersely.

"I was tired of using hair dye," Koslov replied. He stroked his beard. "And this is distinguished, no?"

"Very ministerial," d'Artagnan muttered.

Koslov laughed.

"I thought so. And, you didn't recognise me, which was the main goal. Although, we did not see that much of each other last year. I hope to rectify that."

"Another irony," he was saying, getting into his stride, now he was in control, "We have the same name, Athos!" he added. "Afon is Russian for the Greek "Athos." We share a mountain _and_ a monastery, you and I."

He had dropped his accent now and the Russian dialect was definitely prominent.

"However, interesting that may be," Athos replied, turning back, "What is it you want Koslov?"

he asked; although he had a sinking feeling from what Koslov had already said, that he knew, of course.

"What, but also, _who_ ," Koslov replied smoothly, looking at d'Artagnan, who was still staring at him.

"I want to know how you did it, young man. How you covered it up and then you will retract it. The only thing missing here, gentlemen, is a personal confession of fraud, and believe me, you will tell me."

While he was talking, Athos was very slowly turning the plane back toward the Delta. They were some way from it but it was their only option now.

Suddenly realising what he was doing, Koslov shouted.

In response, Athos put the Cessna into a sudden dive.

"d'Artagnan! Brace yourself!" he yelled.

The small plane dropped, sending Koslov sideways. His gun exploded and the bullet hit the control panel. The desert below filled their view through the windscreen and side windows.

The controls juddered in Athos's hands and he gripped them hard, fighting to maintain control.

The ground slewed at an odd angle and for a moment, he thought he had got it wrong; that they would plough nose-first into the harsh landscape of the Kalahari desert.

Behind him, Koslov was shouting curses. He could not see him but he knew the man was holding on tight, as they were all holding on. At any moment, Athos expected a bullet to slam through his seat into his back. He turned his head and saw d'Artagnan scrunched against the passenger door, hand on the control panel; but there was no grip and he watched as his hand kept slipping. Almost in slow motion.

Athos was banking sharply to the left and the force was all directed to the passenger side of the plane; the centre of gravity shifting, like a fairground ride he suddenly thought. He could not right the plane now, he had made his course and he would put it down, before Koslov could recover. This whole performance was to throw him off guard but a sudden loud explosion of the gun made him duck in his seat as the bullet slammed into the control panel again, inches away from his face; sending shards of glass and smoke into the cockpit. His left ear suddenly went deaf, followed by a loud whine and he shook his head in an attempt to clear it, but to no avail. It only made him dizzy, but if this was the only injury he sustained in the next few moments, he would be more than happy; though he knew as the engine started to stall, and d'Artagnan groaned, that that was an extremely unlikely possibility.

The ground filled the windscreen as it rushed to meet him and he pulled on the control for the final time in an attempt to level out. The fixed landing gear hit the ground and spat red sand upward, obscuring the already limited view; though Athos was not looking through the windscreen but at the damaged controls, trying to judge when the engine would cut out.

The engine did indeed begin to scream then.

It happened fast. Aware that he had two other people in the aircraft with him for whom he was responsible, no matter that one was a cold-blooded murderer, he waited until the screaming stopped and a terrible death-like silence fell – a matter of seconds that felt like long minutes – and the wheels hit again.

The aircraft flew back up into the air, under the power of momentum now, sending Athos's stomach up into his throat. The engine was now dead.

Athos caught sight of a rock face ahead, towering up from the soft sand of the desert floor. Acacia trees scattered the vista and he caught sight of tall grasses; but mainly, it was red sand. The muscles in his arms screamed now as he wrestled with the controls, before the plane came down a third time and this time the undercarriage broke with a loud screech and the plane started to slew sideways.

"Brace!" he managed to shout as the plane hit something and there was a terrible groan of stressed metal as he felt the wheels break as the underbelly made contact once more, slewing over sand and rock.

Athos pulled up at the last minute but the belly of the plane hit the earth for the last time; spraying sand and dirt that covered the windows and cut visibility completely. Athos's head hit the side window and he was aware of d'Artagnan flailing beside him as he sought purchase. The one time he had not insisted on him wearing a seatbelt, he thought ... before that thought slipped away and, with a sickening screech of metal against rock, the plane started to break up. He had no idea where Koslov was but as his head hit the window for a second time, it no longer mattered as the blackness began to close in.

Athos thought at the last minute that the plane would begin to cartwheel and it was all he could do to hold on as the terrible screech of tearing metal deafened him completely. The plane lurched sickeningly and his head hit the seatbelt mechanism on the door.

The last thoughts he had were of Nkosi's beautiful face; and that they would have to get out before the fuel tank burst into flames.

oOo

 **To be continued ...**


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

"To Hell with this, we warn them, now!" Porthos turned on Treville, after Anne had been escorted back to the Hotel by one of the wardens.

"Alright," Treville said at last. "Tell Athos there's a request from air traffic control in Gaborone and he has to re-route. Then just give him the co-ordinates for our airport and he will know something is wrong," he added.

Aramis and Porthos both made their way downstairs to the communications room, behind the kitchen. The Cessna and all the trucks had radios and the room was manned if there was no-one in the building. Otherwise whoever was in the lounge or kitchen undertook that duty. The radio was piped through to the main rooms so that calls would not otherwise be missed.

Aramis sat down at the desk and flipped switches on the radio, pulling the headphones on.

"Heshima Garrison to Cessna 63011. Come in. Over."

The only sound that greeted them was static.

Aramis leant over the microphone and tried again.

"Heshima Garrison to Cessna 63011."

Again, they were met with static.

"That's not good," Porthos grunted.

They left the radio on as they ran back up the stairs to Treville's office.

"The radio's dead," Aramis said, as they walked through the door, carrying the office flight record that Athos had printed out and left on the desk.

"Keep trying," Treville said, his voice tense, as he read the flight record.

Scanning Athos's carefully entered script, he looked up at Aramis.

"The "minister" wanted to see the herds," he said. "Athos will have flown out over the Delta and south toward the savannah."

He pulled out the map he kept in his desk draw and ran his finger over it. Despite the greenery and the lagoons of the Okavango Delta, Botswana was surrounded by thousands of square miles of Kalahari desert.

"Athos always ensures the tank is full, so we are looking at a radius of nearly eight hundred miles. Roughly seven hours flying time."

"He only flies a maximum of three hours at a time, though" Aramis said. "Otherwise it becomes too cramped and uncomfortable in that plane."

"If the plane went down, it could be anywhere," Porthos said quietly, as he entered the office. "Even the desert. And there are plenty of trees out there and some escarpments."

"We don't know it's gone down," Treville said firmly, but without meeting their eyes.

He picked up his phone and called flight control at Gabarone airport as Porthos leant over the map now spread across Treville's desk. After several minutes, he replaced the receiver and looked up.

"The airport reports no distress calls have been received from the Cessna, nor any communication after initial take-off. Athos had reported his route but then, nothing."

"It's all bloody desert," Porthos growled, stabbing his finger on the map. "Needle in a bloody haystack." He muttered.

"Not technically true," Treville replied. "If Athos had to put the plane down, maybe he had the chance to locate an area that would give them a chance of survival."

"There are sand dunes that measure a mile in length and a height of twenty to two hundred feet. Exposed bedrock. Low yet vertical-walled hills," Porthos persisted.

"It's vast and it's desolate." Aramis muttered in the background. "We need to get a search plane up."

Porthos and Aramis nodded at each other in agreement. "We need to head out there."

"Once we get confirmation from Europol," Treville said, without looking up. "Then, we need to warn Nyack. The Tswana were involved last year. If Koslov wants revenge, they should be made aware."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'll get that search plane up."

He turned and looked at Porthos.

"If you want to help, you can go up in the search plane and help them spot."

Aramis clapped a suddenly-pale Porthos on the shoulder.

"An excellent idea," he said, knowing that Porthos hated flying, but would be a nightmare on the ground until they had a plan. Porthos pushed his hand from his shoulder and grunted.

Treville wiped his hand down his face. "I thought this was all over. If Koslov has found out what d'Artagnan did, we are all finished."

Pulling himself out of his thoughts, Treville phoned his contact In Europol and gave him the details on the passport Koslov was using under the name of Fedir Barabash. He wanted to know whether the man named in the passport was a real person or whether he could be eliminated as one of Koslov's fictional aliases.

oOo

Robert McCauley remained behind in his New York office late into the night. The blackmailer had visited him in his office, as arranged. It had been an unnerving experience to say the least but finally he had gone, and McCauley knew what he had to do. He sat at the computer for several hours going through files that he had gained access to. He found one obscure trace, which he copied onto a portable drive and pocketed. Satisfied, he logged off before switching off the light and making his way down to the lobby. With a quick glance up at the CCTV, he brusquely waved goodnight to the guard and hurried into the night.

Tomorrow he would make a call that would take his life in a different direction.

As he made his way to his car, he told himself he was doing this for his family.

oOo

Sound came back slowly.

It was the heat that Athos felt first.

His face burned. He gasped in a breath and his chest felt like it was on fire. Panic began to grip him.

He moved his arm and reached up, realising he was still restrained by the seatbelt which was digging into his chest. He almost smiled. How many times had he told d'Artagnan to buckle up his seat belt and now, he was going to be burnt alive because he was wearing his.

He was hanging halfway out of the plane, which had come to rest at an odd angle; the pilot side high in the air. He had been saved from falling completely out of the open door by the sturdy strut that connected the overhead fixed wing to the body of the plane. He grabbed hold of it now and hooked his arm around it, groaning at the sudden flash of pain in his chest. Feeling for the buckle of the seatbelt, he realised he could fall several feet if he released it suddenly, and he paused to get his breath and his bearings.

The heat on his face increased but he could not smell smoke and he suddenly realised that it was not fire, but the full glare of the sun beating down on him.

Something rolled slowly down the aisle from the front of the plane. Whatever it was crashed into something at the rear. The plane was obviously shifting; the metal creaking. They were still in danger of the fuel tank going up.

He held his breath and released his seatbelt and did indeed drop like a stone, landing painfully on his back; thankfully into the shade of the overhead wing, though he was winded.

Lying there looking up at the underside of the wing, he slowly drew in a breath, trying to order his thoughts. The cockpit had severed away from the body of the plane, and a huge gash had appeared behind the pilot seat. A few inches forward, and he and d'Artagnan would have been killed.

Something moved above him and he raised his head to peer upward. He saw a very still d'Artagnan, still fastened in his seat, glimpsed through the chasm of torn metal. He was twisted so that his head was lower than his shoulder. He took a breath to call out to him but a sudden pain in his head took his breath and he squeezed his eyes shut, fighting down a wave of nausea. Strange then, that he felt suddenly very sleepy. He knew he should stay awake, but it was becoming more and more difficult.

Above him, he saw d'Artagnan's foot twitch.

A shadow fell across his face then and he looked up to see Koslov leaning over him, a Glock handgun pointing at his face.

He stared into Koslov's eyes; gratified to see a gash in his eyebrow and blood on his upper lip. He hoped he had at least smashed a few teeth. The quiet was broken by the distinct click as Koslov shunted the bar back on the gun, priming the weapon.

If he was to die here, he thought, this would be a quicker alternative that what the desert offered and he vaguely wondered if he would hear the gun when Koslov pulled the trigger.

 **To be continued ...**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** It's New Year's Eve afternoon as I post this, so may I wish you all a Happy New Year and thank you for your continued support for my endeavours.

oOo

 **CHAPTER TWELVE**

Treville was grateful when his contact at Europol came back quickly. As part of a joint initiative, Europol worked with Interpol to tackle cybercrime. South Africa had been a member of Interpol since 1993, for which Treville was eternally grateful. His contact was the same agent who had identified Rochefort the previous year and had worked with the FBI agents who finally arrested Yaroslav Krupin in New York after d'Artagnan had uncovered his vast underground empire. He confirmed the man in the passport photograph was Afon Koslov. He asked no questions, merely gave Treville the information in the expectation that when Treville was ready to call on the judiciary, he would.

It had not gone unnoticed that Koslov was impersonating a Ukranian minister, bearing in mind the continuing tensions between the two countries. Minister Barabash did, in fact exist, but was twenty years older and coming up to retirement. He had had an unremarkable career. Treville had also asked him to check on Anne de Brueil, and he had confirmed she had been released due to new DNA evidence presented by her barrister, Michelin Barout.

However, shockingly, he also told Treville that Mademoiselle Barout had been found murdered in her apartment. CCTV from the lobby showed the image of a man, though disappointingly, he could not be identified definitively as Koslov. The Concierge had confirmed she had seen a similar man on one visit, but, according to dates given to her, it was prior to Madame de Brueil's release. However, Mlle Barout was dead, and someone had killed her in a most brutal way.

Treville poured himself a stiff whisky as he ran recent events through his mind. There was only one thing they could do, and so he went in search of his Physician and his Deputy Ranger, both of whom he knew would be glad to finally be doing something. He would, however, keep the information about the murder from Madame de Brueil. She was an unknown quantity and to say he did not trust her was an understatement.

oOo

 **New York City:**

Robert McCauley sat in the glow of his desk lamp and chewed on his thumb nail while he waited anxiously for Treville to pick up. The view from his window, high above the streets, usually soothed him, but recent events had aggravated his ulcer and now the sight left him cold.

Finally, the familiar voice came on the line and he leant forward in his chair; his shoulders hunched.

"Jean, it's Robert McCauley."

In Botswana, Jean Treville leaned back and frowned. Robert was one of the Board, but he was also a good friend. They had known each other many years. He had known of Treville's dream of retirement and had supported him every step of the way, drafting in two men and one woman who he trusted completely, one of whom would also become one of his financial backers. They had spent many hours together pouring over plans and financial statements. Treville trusted him with his life.

Now, he was calling in the middle of the night, New York time.

Something was not right.

"What is it, Robert?"

"You need to listen to me, Jean."

Treville leant forward and propped his head on his fist.

 _Good grief, what now?_

"I'm listening," he said, flatly.

oOo

When Koslov had stared into de la Fere's eyes, he almost pulled the trigger.

However, he realised in that split second that he did not want the complication of a dead body at a plane crash site. Especially one with a bullet between his eyes. His intention had been to isolate them with the fake air tour, get them onto the ground, far away from their home base in a secured location, where he could interrogate the Vet, using de la Fere as an incentive, if necessary.

de la Fere, however, had put paid to that plan and so he would leave them to pay the price of that recklessness. de la Fere had no doubt hoped to kill or disarm him by crashing the plane. All he had succeeded in doing was injuring himself and his colleague; both of whom were now at his mercy anyway.

The Ranger had stared back, the only indication that he was in any way fearful of the outcome of this encounter was the dilation of his pupils. However, Koslov had made his plans and he would now continue to the prescribed location and meet his colleague. What followed with these two of Heshima's finest would be … entertaining.

He pulled out his sat phone and dialled the number. He curtly told the man that he should wait for him; he would be late and arriving on foot. He gave him an approximation of his time of arrival. The man had flown into the country the previous night and would now be enroute to the chosen location, if not already there. Koslov had wanted the woman, Anne de Brueil, there as well. He would have liked to have thrown her into the interrogation mix, but that would have to wait. She would be useful where she was, in the heart of their precious organisation, posing as an innocent travelling companion.

So he had left de la Fere where he was, after delivering a resounding blow to his jaw, and began to ransack the plane, taking what he needed for the trek to meet up with his colleague; a man he hated, but who he would use. He made sure he took their phones and completely destroyed the damaged radio. Next, he destroyed anything they could use, including the camping gear and the contents of their backpacks. He considered taking the last of the water, but decided against it. The mice had to have some life in them for the cat to enjoy the game. He then pulled a cap from his own bag, along with a thick cotton long-sleeved shirt and combat trousers, which he quickly changed into. He checked his boots were serviceable and transferred his supply of water from his own bag into one of the discarded backpacks and then jumped down from the wreck.

Leaving the plane behind, he scrambled over the rocks and with a last look over his shoulder and a quick salute to the unconscious men, he disappeared into the Kalahari.

oOo

When Athos opened his eyes, someone was wrapping something tightly around his arm.

His head throbbed and his jaw hurt and he suddenly remembered Koslov and tried to move.

"Stay still, you've had at least one crack on the head and your arm's bleeding."

Turning his head, d'Artagnan swam into view.

He was doing his best to bandage his arm while in obvious pain himself. Athos remembered him hitting the door as he banked.

"Where's Koslov?" he said through gritted teeth.

"No idea," d'Artagnan replied.

"You're hurt," Athos said then; looking him over and remembering that he had been unconscious too. There was a sheen on his forehead which was also creased in pain.

"Shoulder," d'Artagnan ground out. "Probably dislocated."

"We have to get out of here," Athos said.

"Isn't it better to stay put until rescue comes?" d'Artagnan replied, tiredly.

"We don't know if rescue is coming, d'Artagnan." Athos replied. "We don't know how long that would take. There was no time or opportunity to radio our position before I brought the plane down and we are scheduled to spend a couple of nights in the desert. We don't know where Koslov is and it is too hot to stay in this metal tube for long."

Athos fell back with a groan, his head throbbing, the effort of explanation had exhausted him.

"Duly noted," d'Artagnan said, equally subdued.

"And another thing," Athos added.

d'Artagnan raised an eyebrow.

"Treville is going to kill me for crashing the plane."

d'Artagnan stared at him and then huffed out a laugh.

"Koslov fired into the instrument panel," he replied. "I think the insurance will be on our side."

He gasped as he finished wrapping Athos's arm single-handedly.

"Sorry, I can't tie this bandage off. I'll just tuck the ends in," he said. "Do you know where we are?"

"Roughly," Athos responded. "I turned the plane as much as I could without Koslov becoming aware. I had the Delta to my right and we had not gone too far over the desert." He stopped to catch his breath before continuing. "But now we are on the ground, it would be quite easy to become lost. Koslov may come back. I suggest we salvage what we can and wait until it gets cooler before making a move. Then we need to make or seek shelter for the night. We can get further bearings from the stars."

"I'm impressed," d'Artagnan said.

"Standard desert survival. You really should learn the basics," Athos replied, his eyes closed.

"I never thought I'd be stranded in the Kalahari. Always assumed I'd be on a nice reserve somewhere," d'Artagnan replied, attempting to stand.

"Shit happens," Athos replied, suddenly feeling very sick.

"Then we have a desert to cross," d'Artagnan sighed.

"First, I have to put your arm back," Athos muttered.

"Are you sure?" d'Artagnan asked, but Athos was already pulling himself to his feet. He stood swaying for a few moments, before moving to d'Artagnan's side. The bandage on his arm was holding, and he now reached out for d'Artagnan's hand.

"Are you sure it's not broken?" Athos asked.

"Well, I only have experience with animals, but I'm _fairly_ certain," d'Artagnan managed to smile.

Athos reached out and put one hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder and straightened his arm.

"Only " _fairly_?" Athos murmured.

d'Artagnan opened his mouth to reply when Athos suddenly twisted and shoved and the arm went back into its socket with a sickening "pop."

d'Artagnan slid sideways off the rock with a bellow as Athos stepped back.

"You bastard!" d'Artagnan hissed, glaring up at him with glazed eyes.

"You're welcome," Athos grunted, and promptly turned away and threw up.

 **To be continued ...**


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

Treville had not given Yaroslav Krupin a thought after his trial was over, but now he thought the man's dire circumstances may work in their favour. There was leverage to be had when one party was desperate, as he was sure Krupin would be by now after almost ten months in a small cell with two other inmates, and gang culture rife. Although Krupin was a hardened gang leader himself, prison life in Africa was a different matter. It would take years for Krupin to make his mark. Time was not on his side.

Krupin had had the misfortune to be extradited from the United States back to Africa, where most of his crimes had been perpetrated. He had found himself in one of the most overcrowded maximum security prisons in Cape Town.

The prison that held Yaroslav Krupin was a bleak grey concrete affair but Treville hardly noticed. In light of what was happening, he needed to see him. He had been an army man for most of his life and had seen his share of bleak buildings. The contrast today however, was startling as he had come from the bright colours of the African savannah to this, for a very good reason.

Now, he stood as his briefcase, wallet and phone passed along the short conveyor belt into the prison scanner.

He would retrieve them when he exited. Following along behind a dour guard, he reflected uponKrupin, who he had only seen at his trial. Until then he was an unknown quantity, part of a Russian cell that threatened Heshima and his men. Now, he wanted to know about his second-in-command, Koslov, but it would take careful handling and Krupin was no fool.

The guard punched a code into a door and they entered a small room that held just a table and two chairs. The guard remained in the room and indicated Treville should sit in one of the seats. After a few long moments of staring at a grey wall and gathering his thoughts, another door opened and a guard entered accompanied by Krupin.

Krupin stopped for a moment and looked Treville over, before the guard prodded him forward to the chair at the other side of the table. The door was closed and that guard remained too.

Krupin stared at Treville. And then he smiled.

"We have unfinished business, you and I," he said in a low, menacing voice that did not intimidate Treville but served to show Krupin had not lost his edge. That voice may have terrified many men in its time, but not here, not now. The man would spend the rest of his life behind bars, whereas Treville would be back on the savannah by the time this man was told to go to bed. The thought amused him and he smiled.

Krupin had actually gained weight since he had last seen him. He looked relaxed; like a man in control. Treville had to remind himself that the man was a predator, as much as any in Botswana. Only those animals fought for survival, not gain.

Treville showed him the image from the passport and from the CCTV taken outside Mademoiselle Barout's apartment.

"Do your recognise this man?" Treville asked carefully, noting Krupin's physical response – his eyebrows raising slightly, before he checked himself.

"Afon Koslov," Treville offered.

"Koslov is dead," Krupin muttered, though he continued to stare at the photo.

Treville merely tapped the passport photo.

"It appears, he is not," Treville replied.

Krupin though, was adamant that Koslov was dead. He had no knowledge otherwise.

Silence fell, as Krupin continued to stare at the photo and Treville watched him.

Finally, Krupin cursed. It seemed Koslov had his own agenda now.

He nodded to Treville. He had no reason now to protect Koslov.

As Treville got up to leave, sure the man could not resist telling him more, Krupin said something that made Treville's blood run cold.

"He is after your diamonds, Treville."

Krupin had completed his own survey, and then he had killed the man who had designed his satellite software that mapped Heshima and he had destroyed his office. He had no reason to know he would be thwarted by a veterinary surgeon, who had found his evidence buried deep in his files and not only amended and removed it, but had also extracted evidence of his crime empire, which had brought about his downfall. Koslov had been his second in command. It was he who had murdered the software engineer. He knew everything. And now, it seemed, he was still alive.

Treville did not respond.

As far as the authorities knew, there were no diamonds on Heshima and any exploration would be rejected, thanks to d'Artagnan's computer skills. But Krupin was a weak link as he had seen the evidence. Krupin had no bargaining chip but he could give Treville information on Koslov, which could be helpful.

Treville turned.

"We can help each other," Krupin said, pushing the chair toward Treville and giving him a sly smile.

This is what Treville wanted, and he schooled his features and returned to the table.

Two days ago, Robert McCauley has contacted Treville and sent him a photo of the man who was trying to blackmail him, taken in the lobby of his office building. He had also retrieved the empty pill bottle from his home and sent him a photo of the label. The tablets were apparently for schizophrenia.

His image had also been captured in JFK, and the flight was to Amsterdam. From there, it was possible that he could have taken an onward flight to South Africa. He pushed the image of the man who had visited McCauley and the pill label across the table.

"I cannot help you with your current sentence," Treville said, "but I may be able to help you if you tell me who this man is," he said, sliding the photo over the table under the gaze of the guard.

"What help?" Krupin said warily.

"Privileges, perhaps," Treville replied.

"I want a transfer," Krupin said instantly.

Treville eyed him.

"A transfer where?" he asked carefully.

"To a prison in Russia."

Treville huffed.

"You want to swap Cape Town for Russia?" Treville replied. Even though the prison was dire, corruption meant Krupin had a chance here. He was not sure whether that would hold true in Russia.

"I have … influence in Russia. Nothing here."

Treville thought. He would be storing up trouble if Krupin ever reconnected with his old friends in his home country. But then, who was to say that he could not do that from here?

"I'll see what I can do."

"Good, because this man," Krupin said, tapping on the photograph, "is wanted by the Americans, the French, the Germans, and the Russians."

Treville's eyes widened.

"Who is he? Give me his name, or I will walk out and you will stay here for the rest of your life."

Krupin pursed his lips, weighing up his options. It appeared that he came to the realisation he had none, as he sighed;

"He is ruthless," he finally said. "Does not take orders well. Insubordinate, but useful."

"Useful?"

"He does not give a damn. He's a sicko," he said, tapping the image of the pill bottle label. "In all senses of the word. If he is with Koslov, you have trouble," he said.

"Name," Treville said tersely.

"His name is Abass Naaji. He is known as "The Arab." He is a terrorist, which goes without saying, but he is also a contract killer. The Authorities have been close to getting him a few times. He is at the top of their wanted lists. He is a sick man. He can be wreckless."

"You think he is heading our way?" Treville muttered.

"Looks that way," Krupin smiled. "He likes the heat of Africa. We have worked with him before but we dropped him because he would not take commands."

"Commands from who?" Treville asked.

"From Koslov," Krupin replied. Treville could almost hear the smirk in his voice.

"If Koslov is working with _him_ , he must be desperate," Krupin added. "Or, determined. There will be trouble, Treville," he smiled.

"We already have trouble, Krupin."

"Then you have a lot more," Krupin continued to smile, before leaning forward and pinning Treville with a cold gaze.

"I will give you more when you come back and tell me I am going home." Krupin said. "But, be quick Treville."

And then he laughed and his laughter echoed down the corridor as Treville made his way out to collect his possessions and get out of the prison. Outside, he stood and breathed the warm humid air. Although it was not refreshing, it was better than the air he had been breathing in that awful God-damned building, in the company of that man.

On his return to Heshima, he made further enquiries with Interpol, giving them the name Krupin had supplied.

It was true. Abass Naaji, The Arab, was highly prized. There would be no trouble with Krupin's transfer. Now he knew what they were up against, it was time to move.

But Treville was now a very worried man.

oOo

Treville had been grateful that Robert McCauley had not succumbed to Naaji's blackmail and had instead warned him of The Arab's threat.

In gratitude, Treville arranged to pay off most of Robert's debts and had got his family out to a safe house in Canada. Robert could join them now. Treville had needed him in place should the man contact him again. So far, he had not, and Treville hoped that that would be because Naaji was a little chaotic, due to his condition. But he was obviously also very unpredictable and Treville needed to get Robert to safety now.

"Your potential blackmailer is one Abass Naaji, Robert. Also known as The Arab. He has known Krupin for a long time and by that, he knows Koslov as well. It's a safe bet they are working together."

"He knows Africa?" Robert had asked.

"He does. Very well it seems."

"They're in trouble, Jean."

"Athos is a soldier, Robert."

"He _was_ , Jean. And your vet is not a soldier."

"Once a soldier, always a soldier," Treville insisted, straightening his back. "I have every faith in Athos. He will have d'Artagnan's back."

Although he could not quell the disquiet in his stomach. Robert was right. d'Artagnan was a vet, after all, with no military training.

"Get on that plane, Robert," he said. "I'll contact you when the time is right to go home to New York."

"Will there ever be such a time?" McCauley asked.

"There has been no sign of other Russian activity. I think only those two are working together. Krupin's people have either moved on to other things, or disbanded when he was jailed. He could incriminate a lot of people, after all, so he is a liability to them. Koslov is only active because everyone thought he was dead. He's trying his luck. He has to accrue enough money to escape Krupin's reach. And Krupin now knows he is alive after my visit to the prison."

"Will this be the last of it for Heshima?"

"I hope so. There are only so many bites of the cherry," Treville sighed.

"I hope so too, for your men's sakes."

Robert McCauley thanked him wholeheartedly for what he had done for him and his family.

As Treville hung up, stared at the wall.

"I hope so," he murmured again.

Needing to get out of his office, he called Aramis and Porthos and asked them to meet him in the kitchen. By the time they arrived, he had brewed a pot of coffee and was standing by the window staring out.

Porthos had been on several flights on the search and rescue plane while Treville was visiting Krupin in prison. It had been an impossible task. The Kalahari was vast and covered in vegetation and acacia trees. Sand dune contorted the landscape and made it difficult to see any sign of a small downed aircraft, intact or not.

At the hotel, Nkosi's words came back to haunt her. Athos had been out of radio contact for three days now, She had derided herself for being a fool and treating him so badly. She may never get a chance to tell him how she felt. Oba had been right, Athos was a good man.

It did not help that his wife remained at the hotel, seemingly unperturbed by the drama that was slowly unfolding. Aramis had the task of watching her, but she had remained where she was.

"Are you not worried?" Nkosi finally asked as Anne sat with her familiar Martini, her thumb swiping across the screen of her phone. She looked up and raised an eyebrow.

"Athos can take care of himself," was all she said.

Exasperated, Nkosi slid the bottle of Martini across to her and left her to it, unable to remain in her company any longer.

In the kitchen, Porthos now poured coffee for himself and Aramis, all the time eyeing Treville's back.

"What is it, Cap.?" he finally asked, as they sat down.

Treville turned and showed them the photo of Abass Naaji.

"This man tried to blackmail one of the Board."

"What?!" Aramis said.

"The man he chose is a friend of mine. I owe him a great deal. He came to me for help and I was able to get him and his family out of the country. But he also found a trace in the computer files that leads to the buried report. That will need to be dealt with when we have d'Artagnan back."

"Let's 'ope we get him back then," Porthos replied sourly.

"Both of them," Aramis added.

They had both been on the verge of mounting their own rescue, when Treville had presented this new information. Things had changed.

"Time to move, gentlemen," Treville said.

Porthos rubbed his hands together.

"About bloody time!" he growled.

oOo

Naaji had found the place where he would wait for Koslov and the two Europeans, from the co-ordinates Koslov had given him when he had arrived at the airport and made contact with him.

He was therefore surprised when he got the terse call from Koslov and he eventually arrived, sweating and angry.

"Change of plans," he had gritted out, as Naaji watched him throw his bag in the back of the vehicle. Naaji had brought provisions. He was a seasoned desert dweller, having been born in Libya and had stocked up before he hired the truck.

Naaji went to start up the engine but Koslov stilled him. He needed to eat and gather his thoughts.

He pulled out the map from the glove box and located their position. An attempt to estimate the crash site he had left was not so successful but he knew the rough distance from the time it had taken him to join Naaji.

The light was fading and they would not now be moving until dawn.

"We will get them tomorrow," Naaji had said, his eyes black at the prospect of a confrontation.

"No," Koslov replied. "We don't go back."

Naaji turned to look at him.

"What?"

Koslov smiled.

"We go forward."

In the distance, they had watched a group of tribesmen and women moving across the red, sandy terrain.

"Time to lay low for a while," he added.

 **To be continued ...**


	14. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

Trees, shrubs and grasses cover the sand dunes of the Kalahari.

In the wetter north and east, there are open woodlands, made up mainly of acacia trees. It was to one of these area that Athos had attempted to steer the plane before downing it. Black-maned lion, Springbok, antelope, meerkat, jackals, baboons and snakes all make it their home.

The Kalahari has a number of game reserves and herds of grazing cattle and over the years, cattle ranchers erected fences to manage their herds of cattle; poisoning or hunting predators, particularly targeting jackals and wild dogs. However, Athos doubted he had brought the plane down anywhere near any of the known reserves. He had seen no grazing cattle from the air when he was surreptitiously looking for landmarks.

The journey Athos and d'Artagnan now planned would be arduous, but it was doable. Hopefully, they would be missed within the next few days and a search party would be despatched. However, they would only have the supplies they could salvage from the wreckage. The rest would come down to desert survival skills.

There was also the problem of Koslov.

They were, in fact, surrounded by red savannah, broken up with dunes covered in vegetation, rocks, shrubs and trees. There would be shade at least as they made their way back toward the Delta, which was Athos's intention. Although goats and cattle were abundant within the Kalahari, it was otherwise vast and desolate.

Athos knew the Delta and would know exactly where he was once they got within twenty miles of its bounds. Until then, they would have to be careful. They could not travel at night as there would be too many predators and unseen threats; poisonous snakes, spiders and scorpions. The latter two, although not fatal, could deliver a painful bite.

The light was fading though and they would soon be enveloped in darkness. As soon as the dawn broke, they would make a break for it, but in the meantime they moved unsteadily inside the wrecked fuselage.

Koslov had been thorough, despite making a hasty exit.

Their backpacks had been rifled, and only one remained. He had taken their phones and destroyed what was left of the radio and the camping gear. They salvaged four bottles of water and stuffed them into the discarded backpack, with some packs of rations from the emergency store, which was located in the small hold in the back of the plane. Koslov had done a good job of ransacking the plane but he had been unaware of the integral storage compartment.

Athos also knew there were three blankets stowed under the back seats and a basic medical kit. The seats themselves had been crushed, but after an initial tussle, between them, they managed to retrieve them.

Opening the kit with one hand, d'Artagnan was relieved to see antiseptic wipes and tape. He would be able to fashion a means of closing the wound on Athos's forearm.

Athos, in return, managed to fashion a sling for d'Artagnan's arm from some of the webbing inside the plane.

"You sleep. I'll keep watch," Athos said as they eased down into two of the more serviceable seats.

"We'll both keep watch," d'Artagnan replied. He was worried that Athos probably had a concussion. He had to ensure he did not fall asleep, or if he did, only for a short while. He would ensure he woke him regularly throughout the night.

"I feel as if we're being watched," d'Artagnan said, as they settled down.

"We probably are," Athos muttered.

"Wish we had some weapons," d'Artagnan added ruefully. "Perhaps we should split up, Athos. It's me he wants."

"No way. It is not up for discussion. This whole business involves all of us."

"The problem is," d'Artagnan said, "What do we do with Koslov when we meet up. Which we will, right?"

"I would put money on it," Athos said. "Everything rests with him. He knows our secret and he wants revenge on you for falsifying their surveillance evidence. We cannot let him live."

d'Artagnan sighed. He had seen what the Russians under Koslov were capable of when they stormed the Garrison compound for the final battle. Then, Nyack had come to their rescue. But now they were just two men, both carrying injuries, and this would no doubt turn into a cat and mouse game until they were missed and rescue was sent.

"I have no qualms about it, d'Artagnan," Athos was saying. "He and Krupin have ruined many lives. It's us against him, and he will not hesitate to kill us, once he has made you retract your actions in covering up Heshima's diamond deposits. And we are all now party to that deception. We all face jail and African jails are not the best in the world."

With that, they fell into silence. They conserved their water and kept warm during the cold night with the blankets. d'Artagnan could not sleep; the displaced muscles in his shoulder ached and, try as he might, he could not get comfortable in the remaining aircraft seats. Athos fell asleep several times, only to be woken by d'Artagnan; the last time, with some difficulty.

The quiet of the night was broken sporadically by animal calls, though thankfully, from a distance. It was a long, cold night and it was with some relief when dawn finally broke and they moved stiff limbs and climbed outside the wreckage to prepare for their coming ordeal.

Athos knew that d'Artagnan had full trust in him to get them to safety. The problem was, Athos was not that confident, with a rogue Russian running around, armed and extremely dangerous and a headache that was considerably worse than it was last night.

oOo

"We move slowly," Athos said as they prepared to set off. "Keep your mouth shut."

d'Artagnan was busy checking the one remaining backpack and he stopped and shot a look at Athos, who had his back to him.

"What?"

Athos turned, and seeing the dark look d'Artagnan was firing his way, he smiled;

"Keeping your mouth closed slows the rate of dehydration from breathing. Cover your mouth with your bandanna to slow water loss." He squinted painfully up at the sun, shading his eyes with his hand. "We can only move for a few hours and then we will have to find shade."

d'Artagnan did as he was told. They both had hats, Athos his ranger's hat, and d'Artagnan a baseball cap. Now they covered their mouths and d'Artagnan swung the bag over his good shoulder. Luckily, he considered, it did not weigh much, but considering what was ahead of them, that was not a particularly comforting thought.

Athos had filled his pockets with the few ration packs he had liberated, although he also said it was better if they stayed hungry, as the more they ate, the thirstier they would get. It was better to nibble enough to keep hunger pangs at bay and energy up.

The cool of the night slowly dissipated as the sun rose higher in the sky. The two walked slowly on, keeping in the shade of the many acacia trees.

d'Artagnan was covertly watching Athos, who was walking with his head down. He obviously had a map in his head from their flight and d'Artagnan had no reason to question him. Athos was a seasoned soldier, used to surviving in harsh conditions, but he was clearly suffering and fear was beginning to curl in d'Artagnan's gut.

Suddenly, Athos stopped by a rocky outcrop and went down on one knee. Fearing for his health, d'Artagnan bent down and put one hand on his shoulder. Athos, however, was looking at the sand.

"Fresh tyre tracks," he murmured, pointing them out. "It has to be Koslov. We have found no sign of him. He has to have had help. That's what he meant when he said he had a way out."

He stood and followed the tracks a little way, before turning back to d'Artagnan.

"They head directly here," he called. "And stop, and then about-face and head off back in the same direction."

"So he planned for our plane to land around here," d'Artagnan said.

"And for you to accompany him," Athos finished.

"But he didn't expect you to take the action you did," d'Artagnan smiled.

"He could have killed me back there," Athos said, the memory of staring down the barrel of the Glock rising unwelcome to his mind. "I think he expects me to bring you to safety."

"Why didn't they just come back for us?" d'Artagnan frowned. "It makes no sense."

"Perhaps he is injured," Athos replied, remembering the gash on his forehead. "More likely he is just sadistic."

"You think he plans an ambush?" d'Artagnan asked.

"You heard Koslov. He meant to take you, my friend," Athos said. "That won't have changed.

You are the one who can rectify what happened to the surveillance report. You are the one who knows what you did and where you buried the information. Treville said some of the Board were aware of the findings of the original geo-phys survey they did before he bought the land. There will be information buried in the vaults at Heshima Enterprises in New York, beyond Koslov's reach. But _you_ are the key. Your survival means Heshima's survival for us. It is as simple as that."

Athos looked at him. "But he wants you. Which means, unless we can outwit him, we will see him again soon."

"And we will be in much worse shape when we do," d'Artagnan said quietly.

oOo

They walked on. The only sound was the animals, mostly unseen, but always there. The sun beat down.

Several times, they stopped and sat beneath one of the spreading trees, sipping their precious water. Athos had told him about the "desert melon," the Tsamma melon, that indigenous peoples used as a water supply and had assured him they were plentiful.

However, if Athos was not in a condition to find them, they would be in trouble when their meagre supply ran out. It was obvious Athos was in pain; he kept reaching up and massaging his temples.

Three hours in and with noon still three hours away, d'Artagnan's fears were realised, as ahead of him, Athos sank to his knees.

d'Artagnan moved quickly and knelt in front of him, pulling up his face so he could see his eyes.

The pupils were dilated.

"Athos? What's my name?" he asked, pouring a small amount of water down his throat.

"Vet," Athos replied, and d'Artagnan's heart sank.

He looked around and put his hand under Athos's arm to pull him up. After a few difficult moments, Athos started to rise.

Holding onto him, d'Artagnan looked toward the shimmering horizon and, squinting against the sun, he saw a blurred image.

He focussed on one particular shadow, coming slowly toward them.

"Athos, get up," he cried. "Get up!"

Ahead, another shadow emerged. Athos collapsed in a heap and d'Artagnan finally let go, his shoulder protesting loudly. He slowly straightened and narrowed his eyes, peering at the horizon as their visitors approached. d'Artagnan's eyes widening at the weapons they bore.

"Oh, damn," he whispered.

 **To be continued ...**


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

 **The Garrison:**

Porthos had found the time spent in the rescue plane frustrating; not least because he hated flying. He wanted to be on the ground searching for tracks, signs; anything. Ground cover and trees had obscured the view from the air. Each hour he had spent in the air had been more depressing.

"I'm only doin' this for Athos and d'Artagnan," the big man had growled as he returned after his last fly over. He had thrown his bag on the sofa and sank down wearily.

"I ain't built for air travel," he added, as Aramis passed him a soda and lime, which he drank in one go.

Now, in light of Treville's revelations, plans were quickly formulated and Aramis and Porthos gathered everything they needed and packed up the SUV.

In the hotel, things were still strained between Nkosi and her guest, who had taken to moving between the bar and her room. At least she had not had to entertain her, which suited Nkosi, who was fast losing patience.

Treville had kept all the information they had gleaned so far from Anne de Brueil. Aramis had watched her while Porthos was in the plane. He had seen how she interacted with Nkosi, barely tolerating her, and it seemed that the feeling was mutual. It was obvious Koslov would not be returning to carry on his charade and they all wondered what role this woman had been expected to play and what she would do now. Treville would need to watch her carefully while they were gone.

Their first job was to warn the Tswana about Koslov's return. Porthos slid behind the wheel and Aramis climbed in next to him.

Only to be confronted by a large white dog, sitting in front of their truck, effectively barring their way.

"'Ow does he know?!" Porthos yelled, banging his palm on the steering wheel.

"He is Athos's dog. Of course he knows what our plans are. He probably knows your credit card pin number," Aramis laughed.

"It's deja vu," Porthos growled.

He was obviously referring to the time last year when Musket had insisted on joining them when they had set out to find Athos when he had disappeared. The dog had leapt out of the truck when they were close to the cave where he was found. If the dog had not been there, they would have missed the cave completely.

"He found Athos last year in the cave," Aramis said brightly, as if reading Porthos's thoughts.

"So he did," Porthos conceded. He stared at Musket. "Alright, up you get, but behave yourself. No runnin' off."

Porthos leant back and opened the rear side door behind him.

The dog ran around the back of the truck and jumped up.

"Don't give me the stare," Porthos growled, looking at him in the rear view mirror. "We'll find 'im," he added quietly.

It was a journey of only ten miles over even ground and soon they were pulling up in the Tswana village.

They were met by Oba and Tabansi, Nkosi's two brothers. Tabansi ran off to get his father when Porthos told him why they were there.

Sitting down with the old man and his sons and telling him the Russian was back was hard to do, but Nyack did not shirk away from confrontation. Indeed, it was he who had led his people to the Garrison and had given their help in finally defeating them. Now, Porthos told him, it seemed that Koslov wanted to finish what they had started and was after proof of the diamond field that stretched under Heshima, including Tswana land.

Telling Nyack that Athos and d'Artagnan were missing was equally hard. Nyack offered all the help he could, but surprisingly, it was his youngest son Rach who came forward, having stood on the sidelines and listened to the conversation.

Nyack and his three sons had known about the diamond deposit for many years, but had never spoken about it, and their people did not know, so they had to be warned.

The Tswana had little to offer, but when the elder's son asks to be included, the request is considered with respect.

When Rach asked his father if he could set off to find the plane crash site, Oba at first protested but Nyack quietly replied that it would be his redemption and he could also at the same time, make amends to Athos, who has been kind enough not to press charges after he had set the trap that had nearly cost Athos his foot.

Nyack smiled at Rach. He had, indeed taught his sons to respect the land his people had lived on for generations. The Kalahari was vast but it skirted the lagoons of the Delta and if Athos had gotten into difficulties, he would try to get to that area if he could.

Porthos collected their map from the SUV and spread it on the ground of Nyack's hut. He indicated the search area they had discussed with Treville. They decided on their individual routes, Aramis and Porthos heading due south and Rach south east.

Musket suddenly seemed to take a shine to Rach. He had jumped down from the SUV and followed the group into Nyack's hut and now stood next to him, refusing to budge from his side.

"Well, Musket did find Athos in the cave last year," Aramis repeated, looking at the dog and Rach.

"Will you look after 'im?" Porthos asked him. "Athos would never forgive us if anything happened to 'im, although he does seem to have a mind of 'is own."

"I will look after Moosket as if he were my own," Rach replied, happily, reaching down and scratching the dog's ear.

"That can be arranged," Porthos muttered, as Aramis promptly kicked him.

Porthos then handed Rach a small transmitter.

"If you find the plane, attach this to it. We'll pick up the signal, and find you," Porthos said.

Porthos then took a glove from his pocket.

"Take this. It belongs to Athos. Keep puttin' it under Musket's nose and let him smell it. He might pick up his scent if you get anywhere near them."

Rach nodded and folded the glove over and tucked it in his belt. Then turned to head back to his home to prepare. Musket trotted along behind him.

Aramis looked at Porthos, who smiled.

"This isn't a permanent arrangement," Aramis said firmly. "Musket comes back to the Garrison when Athos does."

"I know," Porthos said quietly, and Aramis clapped him on the shoulder.

"We'll find them, mon ami," he said.

A short while later, Rach came out of his home, pulling a woven bag over his head and fixing it horizontally across his torso. He pulled his long braided hair back and tied a thin strip of animal hide around his head.

He walked over to where his father Nyack and his brother Oba waited.

"Be careful, Brother," Oba said. "Heshima have the rescue aircraft for a few more days. Porthos and Aramis have an SUV. Do not take any unnecessary chances."

Rach clasped hands with his brother and then turned to his father.

"Be careful my son," the old man said, repeating his eldest sons words. "The desert is an inhospitable place."

"I will, father," Rach replied. "Do not fear. You have taught us well."

Rach had all he needed. He had water in his skin and dried meat. He knew how to live off the land. He could get places a plane could not and he was determined to find Athos and d'Artagnan.

With a last nod to his father, Rach set out on foot. Musket took one look at Porthos and turned and followed him.

"You take care, too," Porthos said softly, watching the dog go.

"What?" he said, catching Aramis smiling at him.

"You have a soft heart beneath that bluff exterior, my friend," Aramis said quietly.

"Hard 'ead though," Porthos replied, chuckling.

With a final wave to Nyack, Porthos and Aramis climbed back into the SUV and set off.

Nyack, Oba and Tabansi watched and soon the truck was out of sight amid a cloud of red dust, and Rach and Musket too, had disappeared.

oOo

Back at the Garrison, just as dawn had given way to a sky that was pale pink, striped with orange, Anne de Brueil quietly slid behind the wheel of one of the trucks and fired up the engine. She had waited until Aramis and Porthos and the damned dog had gone off to the Tswana village, wherever that was, before making her way to one of the trucks. Aware that they had been watching her, she had also had them under surveillance.

However, before she could put the truck into gear, a hand slapped hard on the window and she nearly leapt out of her skin.

Nkosi's fierce face greeted her, and Anne sighed. The girl had followed her.

"If you are going to find Athos, I am coming with you," Nkosi said, glaring at her through the window.

"How do you know that's where I'm going?" Anne asked imperiously, winding down the window.

"Treville said you have "unfinished business with him, and that truck is not your property."

Anne did not speak for a few moments, before raising an eyebrow at Nkosi;

"The boys have excluded you? Why doesn't that surprise me," Anne said, tempted to just drive away herself, but curious about this young woman who apparently held Athos's heart. Curiosity got the better of her and she leant across the seats and flung open the heavy passenger door.

"I suppose you know the terrain at least?" she said.

"I know the terrain," Nkosi said quietly, sliding in beside this strange, fierce woman. "And I have seen the search area they have planned."

"Alright. I was going to go by Athos's flight log that Aramis left behind, but you'll do, I suppose."

Not waiting for Nkosi to fasten her seatbelt, she put her foot hard on the accelerator and they roared out of the compound, both women casting sideways sullen looks at each other, but not speaking.

 **To be continued ...**


	16. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

In the cool, dark hut, Athos opened his eyes. Staring up at the conical roof, he frowned as a voice came to him;

"Oh, thank God, you're alright."

He turned his head carefully and d'Artagnan swam into view. The young man tentatively reached out and put his hand gently on his shoulder. "How do you feel?"

Athos slowly blinked a few times, allowing his eyes to adjust before he replied.

He could now see that some light filtered through the loose branches that made up the hut. They were tied together above him to form the apex of the dwelling. There was enough room for the two of them to lie down, but apart from the goat skins on the floor, there was nothing else in the hut; it was merely a shelter.

"I seem to have lost my bearings," Athos eventually replied, groggily.

d'Artagnan huffed out a laugh.

"You were doing fine until you passed out," he said.

Athos raised his hand and touched the cloth on his head.

"What's happened?"

"We were found by some tribesmen. And women and children. They're outside," d'Artagnan's words tumbled out.

Athos carefully lifted his head and peered through the opening of the hut, seeing several people sitting outside. He smiled to himself and sank back down.

"They seem to know what they are doing," d'Artagnan continued, flexing his shoulder. "Whatever they rubbed into this has helped a lot. It smells ok too."

Athos lifted his arm and peered at it. It appeared to have been bound in a bandage of long grasses, tied and wrapped securely. The same paste seemed to have been smeared underneath.

"You should get the recipe," Athos replied, softly.

"It's probably a well-guarded family secret," d'Artagnan huffed, passing him the water skin.

"Eternal thanks," Athos muttered, groaning as he levered himself up. "How did we get here?"

"We haven't moved since you passed out," d'Artagnan replied with a smile. "They just ... made camp around us."

Athos gave him an approximation of a smile.

"They are the San people," he said. "They are nomads, with no fixed village. They build their homes where they stop and then move on."

"How long have we been here?" Athos asked then, sipping a little more water carefully.

"Since yesterday morning, about an hour before noon," d'Artagnan replied. "It's late afternoon now."

Around twenty seven hours, Athos calculated.

Images of d'Artagnan sitting cross legged next to him during the night swam into his mind. He remembered seeing him sitting quite still, his head down and his hair obscuring his face. He had wanted to reassure him, but he was so tired and confused he felt as though he was enveloped in a thick fog and communication seemed an impossible task.

It seemed though, that reassurance was a two-way street;

"Were you holding my hand?" Athos smiled at him, as he remembered the comfort of that gesture, anchoring him and allowing him to finally sleep.

"Only to check your pulse," d'Artagnan replied tartly.

"Thank you," Athos replied.

"You're welcome," d'Artagnan smiled.

"Have you eaten?" Athos asked. d'Artagnan really did look exhausted.

"Yes, they gave me something. Not quite sure what, but it hit the spot," he replied, before smiling. "And they keep pointing at the horizon, so I think they have a plan."

Athos reached out his hand and d'Artagnan eyed it warily, before pulling him up into a sitting position, which elicited a loud groan from each of them. As Athos leant on one elbow, they looked at each other, silently assessing their individual hurts.

"They will hopefully take us to the edge of the desert," Athos said. "In any case, by this evening I should be able to get our bearings from the night sky."

"You _expected_ to meet them!" d'Artagnan suddenly said; his eyes wide.

"I hoped that we would," Athos replied.

"They are skilled hunter-gatherers with thousands of years of genetics in their blood; a modern example of prehistoric man," he added.

"I have heard of them, of course," d'Artagnan replied. "But I never thought I would meet any of them."

"At one time," Athos said, "there were many more of them, but mining developers drove them from the Kalahari, their ancestral home. In 2006, the Botswana Government finally ruled they had been badly treated and they started to return, but in nowhere near the numbers that left. I believe the last count was 50,000, but only around 20,000 continue to follow their ancient ways, so we are truly privileged."

"If Koslov finds us with them," d'Artagnan said, slowly, "are they in danger?"

"I doubt it. The San are revered in some quarters now. He would know that."

"Maybe that's why he didn't come back for us," d'Artagnan pondered.

"Maybe. Maybe he saw them approach us. Our troubles will start when they leave us."

"What about Aramis and Porthos? They'll be looking for us by now, surely?"

"As far as they know, we took a Ukrainian Minister on a pleasure trip. They have no way of knowing the plane went down."

"But we've been out of contact for over three days!"

"It's not unusual to get derailed by a guest who has different ideas to the original plan. It's happened to me before," Athos replied, sinking down and closing eyes. "We had provisions and camping gear on board."

"But you've always been in contact with Heshima?"

"Always. But communication can be patchy out here, d'Artagnan. The Kalahari has several competing climate systems."

"Well, he's obviously not a real Minister," d'Artagnan persisted, "so his presence won't have been missed."

"And we have no way of knowing if anyone is aware of Koslov's deception," Athos added. "Aramis was in Lille at his medical conference. But alarm bells will have started ringing with Porthos by now."

"And Nkosi," d'Artagnan said, tentatively.

At the mention of her name, Athos opened his eyes and looked at him sadly.

d'Artagnan pressed his lip together and returned his gaze.

"She'll come around," he whispered.

"Perhaps," Athos replied, before levering himself up once more and looking through the doorway at the people outside.

"We cannot stay here," he said. "It will put a burden on these people, they have very little. And there is the problem of Koslov," Athos said. "He is a seasoned Russian soldier who has been in Africa as long, if not longer, than I have."

"And there are children," d'Artagnan added, watching the group outside moving around.

With that, Athos closed his eyes and they fell into silence.

Later, as Athos found his feet, he and d'Artagnan crouched outside.

One of the San approached them and took up a stick and began to draw in the sand.

Athos had an amount of Tswana, learned from Nkosi and Nyack, but not the words he wanted here. The San tribesman drew a wavy line in the sand and pointed the stick to one side of it. His eyebrows raised at Athos, waiting for affirmation that he understood.

"River?" Athos said, peering at the sand map.

The tribesman draw a circle on the map, to the north west of the diagram.

"Yes," Athos nodded. "The Delta. The river flows from the Kalahari into the Delta," he muttered to himself.

Now, he just needed to know where they were _now_.

Athos pointed to the ground and then to themselves and raised his shoulders and his eyebrows in question.

d'Artagnan was watching carefully and admired Athos's ability to silently communicate. No doubt his practise with Musket, his deaf dog, had helped, but he had an expressive face and could silence any of them with a glare. It was no surprise to d'Artagnan then, when the San nodded his understanding and drew another circle.

Athos's heart dropped. He had drawn the mark a good distance from the border line of the Delta he had drawn.

"That far?" he whispered quietly to himself, before looking at d'Artagnan and schooling his features.

Then, the San tribesman started to draw stick people and pointed at his people, some fifteen of them in total, all watching them now. He drew two more stick people, slightly taller than the rest, and pointed at Athos and d'Artagnan. Then he rubbed out five of the fifteen and redrew them standing next to the two Athos and d'Artagnan stickmen.

Athos pointed at the drawings and held up his hand, palm upward.

"When?" he asked.

To this question, the man draw a picture of the sun.

If Athos understood the man correctly, five of the tribesmen would go with them, at sunrise the following day.

If that was the case, he felt the first stirrings of hope. Koslov would make for the Delta, there was no other option. Athos and d'Artagnan could begin to follow him the next day. They needed to reach the safety of the Garrison before Koslov forced them to reveal what d'Artagnan had done to the mineral surveillance report.

If Koslov got his way and d'Artagnan was forced to do that, he would then be expendable, and Koslov would either kill him, or reveal his part in the deception to the Authorities. That, perhaps, would be a worse fate for d'Artagnan. To be incarcerated at his age would be a point of no return, mentally and physically for the young man, whose only desire was to work with animals and undertake further research into their future care. That had been his reason for what he did, suppressing the evidence of the vast track of diamonds had guaranteed Heshima's survival and safety from future exploration by the large companies that seemed to have control over the vast swathes of Africa that bore the best fruit.

Athos knew that d'Artagnan had put everything on the line by doing what he had. It made him more determined to protect him.

They had no option but to spend a night here with the San people. Athos did not know how far the San would be willing to go with him and d'Artagnan, but at the moment, any help would be gratefully received. They would be in good hands. The San were experienced bush people and were renowned for their healing skills. They had the natural stamina of the Tswana, but these nomadic tribes people had thousands of years of genetics built into them. Their help would be invaluable. For once, Athos was happy to relinquish control in the days to come. But now, he needed to rest and so he left d'Artagnan sitting with the San and went back into the hut where he lay down and tried to sleep.

However, as twilight fell, the sounds from outside drifted in and he found himself listening.

Sitting by the fire, one of the elder San was telling stories. The rest of the San were listening or laughing hysterically. For a short while, Athos forgot their problems in the face of such simple happiness. Then, they started to sing traditional songs and they all clapped in time.

oOo

When Athos emerged out of the hut some time later, it was fully dark. d'Artagnan was sitting amid the circle of the San people, including men, women and children.

Above them the Milky Way scattered swathes of colour and bright stars across the heavens.

A large fire was burning brightly, sending sparks up into the still air and they were all laughing at something that their elder was saying.

Athos knew that the San were a very sociable people and loved nothing better than to sing and laugh together and clap their hands. He stood at the entrance to the hut and watched with a smile on his face as d'Artagnan clapped hands with a little girl sat next to him, still favouring his shoulder and using his one hand to both of hers. The language of the San was complex but included a series of clicks. Along with the laughter, clapping and clicks, it was a raucous but happy noise. After the trauma of the last few days, Athos found himself smiling at the scene in front of him.

The San were the closest modern equivalent to a prehistoric tribe and watching the people before him, Athos counted himself extremely lucky that he could witness such a scene.

There was an array of food set out within the circle and the people were helping themselves. Water was stored in the blown-out shells of ostrich eggs. There were dessert melons, which provided the bulk of their water and some of the people were chewing on plant roots, which also provided moisture. There were nuts and berries, laid out on woven grasses.

There was also what looked like meat laid out on the mats.

The San had started on a song which involved all of them clapping in turn around the circle and d'Artagnan joined in when his turn came. The clicking grew louder and some of the San were now dancing.

d'Artagnan looked up and saw Athos watching and his eyes widened in recognition. He waved him over and moved up to make some space.

Athos was looking better and d'Artagnan was pleased to see he readily complied and walked across, dropping down next to him. d'Artagnan passed him a piece of melon and Athos took it with a smile.

The next thing they were offered made them pause. They were what looked like insects, piled up on leaves. They both took some and d'Artagnan was surprised when Athos chewed on one.

"Protein," he muttered. "Don't think about it."

d'Artagnan looked at the many-legged blackened creatures and took a bite of melon, then shoved one of them into his mouth. Trying not to pull a face, he began to chew. To add to his embarrassment, Athos reached over and took another one, obviously enjoying the young vet's discomfort.

"They have meat," Athos ventured, finally taking pity on him.

"What is it?" d'Artagnan asked warily.

"Puff adder, I believe. Highly venomous when alive," Athos smirked.

"You're enjoying this," d'Artagnan growled, and Athos held up his hands in amused surrender.

"Seriously," Athos replied a moment later, "We had better eat. We set off tomorrow so we need to fuel up. Once we are in the sun it doesn't make sense to eat."

d'Artagnan remembered Athos telling him that when they set off from the plane crash site.

"I have seen cattle grazing in places when we have flown over on other occasions," he ventured. "Don't the San use beef?"

"The cattle are owned by farmers; the San may barter for meat occasionally but they are nomads and cattle do not fit into their lifestyle."

Later, the San showed them their weapons; primitive but effective bows and arrows that had initially made d'Artagnan stare when he had first set eyes on the tribesmen as they approached them the day before.

"These have been their weapons of choice for thousands of years; it is what they use to hunt with. They obviously have to get up close and it can be dangerous but they are light on their feet," Athos explained.

The San were indeed very slight in stature and d'Artagnan could see how that would work in their favour if they were stalking an animal for any length of time. Their skin was prematurely wrinkled but they did not wear much in the way of clothing and so their skin was exposed to the elements. He made a mental note to ask Athos about their life expectancy in such harsh conditions.

d'Artagnan had been in Africa for a year prior to working on Heshima, but this was a revelation to him and he relished learning about these primitive people and understood why Athos loved anthropology so much.

The night drew on pleasantly and for a few hours, Athos and d'Artagnan forgot their woes. Both were feeling better, but they knew it was a brief respite as they had a long trek ahead of them and they did not know how far the San would take them and what lay in store.

Koslov would know how to survive crossing the Kalahari, the Russian had been in Africa for years and he had been part of the group that had been in Botswana watching Heshima. He was also a soldier and he had probably brought his own provisions but he also had the support of whoever had picked him up in a vehicle if their assumption was correct.

"I am expendable, d'Artagnan," Athos said, finally voicing his thoughts. "Koslov wants you."

During a lull in the proceedings, d'Artagnan leant in and spoke to Athos earnestly;

"I know I suggested we split up earlier, Athos, but I want us to stay together. I can hardly do as Koslov asks," d'Artagnan replied. "What I did was fraud. I'll go to prison and they'll throw away the key."

"How did he know about you though?" Athos muted.

"He must have seen the original report they did from their satellite surveillance. Or at least knew about it," d'Artagnan answered. "And I've published papers on my software developments, so he'll know it was probably me."

"Otherwise, the only way is through the Board," Athos said. "Treville said his original backers knew about the possible diamond deposits before they bought Heshima."

d'Artagnan thought for a moment.

"But they would not know I had altered Krupin's submission."

"But Krupin knew that suddenly there were insufficient deposits to make exploration worthwhile. Whereas, we now know the opposite is the case."

"It won't go away, will it?" d'Artagnan sighed.

"Not while Krupin and Koslov are alive. I doubt they will give up. I feel as if I have made things worse by bringing down the plane," Athos said quietly.

"You saved my life," d'Artagnan replied fiercely. "We both know Koslov would not let me live after I had done what he wanted."

But Athos was not listening. Koslov had plans for d'Artagnan that would bring down Heshima and ruin Treville. There was no time to be lost.

However, he had no idea how to proceed, or in which direction to go. Tomorrow they would be in the hands of these primitive people and their only way of communication was to draw in the sand.

 **To be continued …**

oOo

 **A/N:** The San are the oldest inhabitants of Southern Africa, where they have lived for at least 20,000 years, the decendants of early Stone Age ancestors. They are formidable trackers and hunters. There are many different San groups – they have no collective name for themselves, and the terms "Bushman," "San," "Basarwa" (in Botswana) are used. Made up of small mobile groups, San communities comprise up to about twenty five men, women and children. At certain times of the year groups join for exchange of news and gifts, for marriage arrangements and for social occasions. They govern themselves by group consensus. Due to absorption but mostly extinction, the San may soon cease to exist.


	17. Chapter 17

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

When Treville realised Nkosi and Anne had disappeared with one of the Garrison trucks, he got on the radio to the truck to ask what the hell they thought they were doing.

He was not prepared for the result.

Anne told him in no uncertain terms that they were as capable as the boys in mounting a search and they were insulted that they had been overlooked in the search party.

In the face of her indignation, Treville actually apologised.

The next thing he did was to get one of the wardens to cover the radio while he rode to the Tswana village to tell his friend, Nyack, that the old man's beloved daughter was driving into the Kalahari in search of two of his men and in the company of Anne de Brueil.

The old man already knew that Koslov was dangerous. Treville was keen to reassure him that his men were capable in any encounter.

"Aramis and Porthos are soldiers," Treville told the old man. "They will fight."

Despite being a surgeon, Aramis's military background had been revealed last year. He would be more than competent in any encounter and they had the advantage of the intelligence they had gleaned from Treville's contacts, though he did not tell Nyack everything.

"And my daughter?" Nyack asked.

Treville reached out and took hold of his friend's hand.

"She is with the most self-centred woman I have ever known," Treville replied. "If anyone can survive this, it is her."

"Is this woman dangerous, Treville?" the old man asked, as intuitive as ever.

Treville could tell him little about Anne de Brueil, apart from what he personally knew, but he would tell Nyack the truth. He owed him that.

"She killed Athos's brother, Nyack," Treville replied.

He felt the old man tense and the pressure on his hand increased.

"But," Treville added, earnestly, "Athos loved her once and he must have felt that she was worthy of his love. His judgement cannot have been so skewed that he could not have seen the good in her before he married her," he added, though he did not know if he believed that. He had only that morning felt the sharp end of her tongue and she was certainly mixed up in something here.

In actual fact, he did not know what to think where Anne de Brueil and Athos were concerned. To have his judgement made worthless could have destroyed Athos. He knew that this was the essence of Athos's deep melancholy when he had first brought him to Africa.

And he knew that Nkosi was equally confused.

Finally, Nyack nodded.

"My daughter is strong too, Treville," he said, before he smiled. "She goes to build a bridge."

With that, Nyack released his hand and went back to his hut and Treville returned to the Garrison.

There was nothing more he could do, except man the radio and wait for news.

oOo

 **Later that day:**

"Moosket, my friend!" Rach smiled widely. "We stop for a while now, I think."

He reached into his bag and took some of the dried meat strips and offered them to Musket, who eyed him cautiously, before creeping forward and taking them gently from his fingers.

"You are a remarkable fellow," Rach said with a broad smile, as he watched the dog gulp the food down. "But you have now to help me, my friend."

He took out the glove that Porthos had given him and held it to the dog's nose. Aramis had told him to do that frequently and the dog would remember the scent.

Musket was a one-man dog, he knew, but right now, he was Rach's companion. Rach knew that the moment the dog set eyes on his real master that would change but, for the moment, they were both keeping each other company and both had a purpose that they were suited to.

He had met the dog before when he had visited the Garrison, before his fall from grace, and thought him a fine animal. He knew he was deaf, but it did not seem to deter their communication and he spoke normally to him and without thinking, he gave him hand signals when the dog looked at him. Having an animal with him meant he had to keep in the shade a little more than he normally would but that was fine with him. He was a natural athlete like his brother, Tabansi, but he knew his limits.

Eventually, travelling in the late afternoon, they came upon a group of nomads.

Rach spoke a number of the dialects of the region and made himself understood. None of them had seen any Europeans on their travels.

Looking up, he saw a small plane circling in the far distance and wondered if it was Treville's hired search plane. He wished at that moment that he had a radio, but Porthos had not had a spare one; they had not known when they came to the village to warn Nyack about Koslov that Rach would be so insistent in joining the search. Porthos had given him a transmitter though, and he was taking good care of that.

Rach knew that he had cost the men of Heshima no end of trouble last year when he had been drawn into Krupin and Rochefort's plans. His sister had not spoken to him since but Porthos, like Athos, had had an open mind and had accepted Rach's circumstances and he thought that Porthos realised that Nyack had made headway with him. So when Musket seemed to gravitate toward him, Porthos and Aramis had been alright with the dog accompanying him, as long as he guaranteed to care for the dog, which he had promised to do.

That was the ultimate trust they could show Rach, he knew, and he had been grateful for that. He had not felt proud of himself since the whole business started with Rochefort, but at last, he felt the first stirring of pride that they would do that for him.

Musket was an African dog, born and bred in Botswana. The fact he was white and had less pigmentation than hearing dogs meant he needed to be watched carefully for any sun damage; that had also been explained to him very carefully by Aramis and Porthos, but to-date, they said, that had not happened despite his roaming around with Athos. They had therefore not curtailed the dogs outdoor activities. Anyway, the dog had a mind of his own and was devoted to Athos so they viewed him as one of the rescue team. The more hands on board the better, Aramis had said.

These thoughts tumbled through his mind as he fed the dog the dried beef.

"We are a team, you and I, Moosket," he whispered, as his eyes scanned the horizon. "But, where _is_ your master? We are all looking."

What Rach, Aramis or Porthos did not know, of course, was that Nkosi and Anne were also now part of the rescue team.

oOo

The nomads had been very taken with Musket, but Rach made it clear that he was not for sale or trade and so the tribesmen and he had parted company and Rach moved on.

Later, he made a shelter beneath an acacia tree and he and Musket bedded down, giving warmth to each other in the close proximity of their camp. Spending the day in the desert had been liberating for him and for the first time in month, Rach felt alive.

The night passed peacefully and in the morning, he dismantled the shelter and smoothed their tracks before sharing another meal. Musket was calm, but eager to be on the move.

Rach took of at a steady run, Musket at his heels. An hour after dawn, he came upon a small encampment of half a dozen huts. He was greeted warmly by an elderly Bushman who bid him sit with them. Others joined him; women and children, all again, taken with the large white dog. Musket though, was agitated, straining toward a hut on the edge of their encampment. Rach recognised this group as San people and he pointed to the hut that the dog was intent on. Two of the men nodded and bid him follow them.

Inside the dark interior, Rach waited for his eyes to adjust, but Musket did not wait. He picked his way quietly over to the bundle of hides in the corner, creeping on his belly. When he arrived next to the bundle, he placed his head on it and stilled. One of the tribesmen came in, and, on seeing the dog and his position, he smiled and walked over, bidding Rach to follow.

Pulling the hides aside, he looked up at Rach.

Rach followed his gaze back down to the floor, and pulled in a breath at what he saw;

A discarded bandage and a piece of webbing from the plane. The San put the webbing over his head and showed Rach that it had been a sling. Then, to Rach's delight, he drew a crude drawing of a plane in the sand floor of the hut.

Musket was now straining to be gone and the tribesman pointed in the direction some of his people had gone in search of the "white bird that fell from the sky."

It was the first indication that something had happened to the plane and Rach quickly made his goodbyes and he and Musket took off in the direction the people pointed.

As he jogged, he slipped his hand into his bag and his fingers curled around the transmitter that Porthos had given him.

He was excited to think he may find Athos and d'Artagnan, but fearful of what he may find.

oOo

Most of the main roads in the Kalahari had been sealed over the years and any traffic could only go into the parts of the country that required a 4x4. Otherwise the desert was a criss cross of sandy tracks and shrubs, with an abundance of trees and vegetation, broken up by rocky outcrops.

Porthos and Aramis had travelled along a dried-out river bed as they left the Delta. They would spend the night in the vehicle, where they would be safe from predators.

The Kalahari had all the "big five" predators. He and Aramis had weapons but would only use them as a last resort. Usually, one of their high voltage search lamps would frighten off any curious animal. They had a course set out, based on their discussions with Treville, which they had decided not to deviate from, as Rach was now travelling his own route and they wanted to maximise their man power.

Treville had hired the search plane for five days, but as Porthos had shown, it was be difficult to spot a downed plane over such terrain, and over such a large area. There were many trees and vegetation which could hide a small aircraft unless it had made a mess of the landscape. They both knew that if Athos was putting a plane down, he would do his utmost to ensure the least damage. However, if he was not in control, that was a different matter and both Aramis and Porthos dared not contemplate such a scenario.

"d'Artagnan is medically trained, Porthos," Aramis was saying, as Porthos gripped the wheel tightly. "If they are injured, there is that, at least."

"You know how Athos feels when we put d'Artagnan in charge of his injuries," Porthos muttered.

"He doesn't mean it, he is just being mischievous."

" _That_ is not a word I'd ascribe to our Head Ranger," Porthos chuckled, relaxing a little at the thought.

"Perhaps not," Aramis smiled.

They had extra fuel on board and could cover a wide area. Treville was back at the Garrison, waiting for any news. Porthos knew their boss was taking it hard, but he had promised him he would not return without their friends.

"Two words," Porthos said, as he scanned the hazy horizon. "Needle and haystack."

"You've said that before, my friend, but it's all we have," Aramis replied, as they bounced down the sandy track.

"So, we've got Koslov and Naaji on the loose; Athos's murderous ex - sorry, wife, and a murdered barrister," Porthos grunted.

"That's about the size of it."

They had recently spoken to Treville who had told them that Nkosi and Anne had taken one of the Garrison trucks and had also set out.

"And we've got us, Rach and the dog on foot, and Anne and Nkosi in the other truck, all searchin' in different areas of this damned desert."

"And maybe a plane crash, with Athos and d'Artagnan possibly injured."

"But Koslov may be injured too," Porthos added, hopefully.

"Perhaps not if he made Athos land the plane. And according to Anne, he seemed very interested in d'Artagnan."

"So Athos is expendable."

"Yes, perhaps."

"Damn."

They stopped frequently, every time there was movement on the savannah.

"Rach may find something," Aramis said quietly. "He speaks several dialects. If he comes into contact with some of the tribes people, who knows?"

"I'm just waitin' to hear that transmitter," Porthos agreed, staring out across the plains to the horizon. In the distance, there was a pride of lions, laid amongst the grass under a group of large, spreading acacia trees. Under normal circumstances, they would have stopped to admire them and check they were all looking healthy, even though they were not on their own land, but today was different. They kept moving.

They travelled for several hours, before making camp. Spending the night in the dark was not that comfortable but compared to what Athos and d'Artagnan could be experiencing, neither complained. Aramis checked his medical supplies once more and they pulled blankets around themselves and tried to settle into sleep. Every hour or so they looked at each other, silently acknowledging that neither would sleep much that night. Outside the vehicle, the night was alive with nocturnal animals, but it was not they who kept them awake.

They wondered also, how Nkosi and Anne were faring, in close proximity to each other.

oOo

At dawn, they ate a meagre meal. Neither of them were hungry and their thoughts were never far from their two friends. Would they have food? Eager to continue, they filled the fuel tank from one of the canisters in the rear of the truck and set off. An hour later, Porthos was manoeuvring around a group of rocks when there was a sudden loud "ping" at the rear of the vehicle. The truck slewed to the left as Porthos reacted.

"What the 'ell was that!" he shouted, as the truck took another hit.

"Someone is shooting at us," Aramis yelled, as he slipped low in his seat and turned to look around them.

 **To be continued ...**


	18. Chapter 18

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

"I don't know what they expect to see flying in circles all day," Anne muttered, watching the plane in the far distance;

"If they've crashed the plane and are on the move, they will be doing it at the beginning and the end of the day, when it's not so hot. Even I know that."

Nkosi did not reply. Not for the first time, the woman's cold words shocked her. She knew they would abandon the air search soon and it would then be up to them to find the plane.

Anne had never been in a desert before. She was surprised at the flora and fauna that abounded. Several times, she had pointed at groups of animals and Nkosi had grudgingly acknowledged her interest. In her heart of hearts, Nkosi could not imagine being incarcerated for six years and the freedom she must now be feeling must be overwhelming. The woman (she refused to think of her as Athos's wife) was very guarded though and when she _did_ speak, Nkosi could not tell if she was making fun of her. She had a way of looking right through her and she made Nkosi feel very young.

Athos though, had loved this woman enough to marry her. He had not divorced her.

Nkosi was fascinated by her pale skin and green eyes. She was so very different to herself. How could Athos be attracted to two such very different women? Earlier, she had watched as Anne applied her red lipstick when she was driving. Even her fingernails were red.

They too, would spent the night in their vehicle. Nkosi had so very much she wanted to ask her. She had so many questions. But this woman had murdered Athos's brother and she had heard his nightmares about both of them. Those words and images had been seared into her as she had sat, holding his hand through those dark days and nights. She could not imagine this woman doing the same; but she had no way of knowing.

Anne was obviously curious about her too. Nkosi knew she had spoken to some of the hotel staff about her.

Now though, neither spoke as they made camp, Nkosi doing most of the work, while Anne disappeared around a tall rock formation.

"Be careful where you put your feet," Nkosi had called after her, laughing softly at the yelp that came back to her. Taking care of business in the desert could be a dangerous activity. At the very least, the speed that some insects and lizards could move often took a person unawares.

"Now you tell me!" Anne yelled, in a most unladylike way. No doubt her mask would slip further before this journey was done.

They each had food and water and ate in silence. Nkosi scanned the dark horizon but the moon did not offer much light and all seemed quiet. They too, had weapons and Nkosi had hunted with her brothers when she was younger and was confident she could protect them if necessary, although the woman looked as if she could take care of herself.

At some point, they would have to talk but at the moment they seemed to be circling each other like a pair of rival lionesses.

"What are your brothers like?" Anne suddenly asked, taking her by surprise as they changed places and made themselves as comfortable as they could in the vehicle. Nkosi froze at her words; she did not know that Anne knew about her brothers. During the silence that ensued, Anne took the opportunity to casually brush the sand out of her hair.

"They are Tswana," Nkosi finally answered, non-committally as she slid across into the passenger seat and lowered the back, pulling a blanket around her.

Anne paused her brushing and rolled her eyes.

"Yes, but I don't know what that means," she sighed.

"They are loyal to our people, above all else," Nkosi had replied.

"Are they fighters?" Anne asked, lightly.

"If they have to be," Nkosi replied, remembering the battle for the Garrison last year. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, just interested," Anne replied, closing her eyes and ending the conversation.

Not for the first time, the woman's words gave her cause for worry.

oOo

Porthos rammed his foot on the accelerator. What they now recognised as bullets continued to hit the ground around them. He swung the wheel around and took off to the side, heading toward a thicket of tall trees. Bouncing along in the tall grass, Aramis looked behind them. The other vehicle had stopped, the driver obviously watching them.

"What's he doin'?" Porthos shouted, as Aramis leant over and pulled out his rifle from the rear seat.

They had found out last year that Aramis was a crack shot, and Porthos relaxed as Aramis expertly lined up the rifle on the back of the seat, aiming it through the open back window.

The next bullet hit their rear tyre just as Aramis fired.

The other vehicle sat motionless for a few more minutes before slowly pulling forward.

Aramis sighted again and fired; the bullet hit the wing of the other vehicle, and the vehicle stopped.

They waited; Porthos having placed the vehicle between two thick tree trunks. Overhead branches partially obscured their truck, giving them a modicum of cover.

Unexpectedly, the other vehicle then turned in a slow circle and departed, heading north.

Porthos cursed and rammed the gear lever into reverse, slewing the vehicle around.

"What are you doing?!" Aramis hissed.

"Goin' after him," Porthos shouted, as red sand sprayed over the side of the truck.

"No! They are going north, back toward the Delta."

"So?" Porthos said, watching the quarry disappearing as he slowed. "That's got to have been Koslov – who else would shoot at us?!"

"So," Aramis explained, "They came from the south – we go where they have been; that may have been Koslov, but he was with Athos and d'Artagnan in that plane."

"And another thing," Aramis added, "He is not alone. Someone picked him up in that truck. I don't care where they are going now. Both Nyack and Treville know the threat - _we_ have to go south, Porthos!"

Porthos finally nodded, his anger dissipating as Aramis's words sunk in.

"What if he had d'Artagnan with him?"

"He didn't. I saw them through the scope. Different body shape completely and neither were trying to get my attention as d'Artagnan would, apart from trying to kill us. I don't think they expected to see us to that we would return fire."

"Not so expertly at least," Porthos growled.

"Think it was Naaji?" he added.

"It must be," Aramis said quietly, before turning to Porthos.

"It's progress," he added. "They wanted to stop us."

"Progress of sorts, yeah," Porthos conceded. "I'd rather have those two together in the same place than lookin' over my shoulder in two different directions."

"They're goin' north," Aramis confirmed as the dust rose on the horizon.

"We have warned Nyack. There is not much else we can do. We have to find Athos and d'Artagnan. They're out there somewhere."

"What if they've already found them?"

"Then d'Artagnan would be with them. He's no good to them dead."

"And Athos?"

But Aramis did not answer.

Watching the other truck disappear, they put their concerns aside and turned back to the matter in hand.

Aramis got on the radio to inform Treville, but all they got was static.

"We'll try later," he said. "Better check the damage."

As it turned out, Koslov and Naaji had effectively stopped them. For a short while, at least.

"Better change the tyre," Porthos grunted, when they had completed their inspection of the truck.

oOo

Elsewhere, Rach was beginning to think he would never find the plane among the thick vegetation, trees and the tall escarpment ahead, when he began to see that some of the grasses were flattened. He stopped and crouched down, running his hand over the ground. Following the track, he saw how it widened, before cutting across the sand in a much rougher manner. He pulled out Athos's glove and held it to the dog's muzzle. Musket whined and then pulled away, setting off along the flattened grasses toward the rocks ahead.

Rach started to run.

At first, he couldn't see anything, but then the dog's head appeared among the tall grasses to the side of the ever widening flattened track. He could now see that bushes had been flattened, and the bark of a tree had been gouged, its half-severed branches hanging down. Musket was bouncing up and down as he ploughed through the grass, before rounding the edge of a tall rock and disappearing.

Rach continued to careen forward, leaping over loose rocks, his heart thumping; his eyes all the time on the wide track that the plane had obviously made.

Toward the rock where Musket had disappeared he slowed and stopped, unsure if he really wanted to see what was beyond. Musket suddenly started to bark, however and Rach took a breath and ran on.

Rounding the edge of the rock, there in front of him, was the wrecked light aircraft.

Musket was next to the cockpit, jumping up on his back legs and barking.

Rach approached slowly now. He could see the cockpit had broken away from the body of the aircraft and the tail had a huge gash in it, which effectively had pulled it apart from the aircraft too. He hoped that the occupants had all been in the body of the plane, which looked battered but intact.

However, as he approached the pilot's door, it was hanging open. Running his fingers over the door interior, they scraped against something. Dried, crusted blood. He rubbed his hand furiously on the goatskin cloth that covered his lower body. The plane was on a cant, the passenger side raised higher as the pilot's side which was partially buried in the sand.

Rach swallowed and peered inside the craft, steeling himself to see a dreadful sight.

But there was no-one there.

The small group of San he had discovered had shown him the trappings of two injured people who they had obviously cared for. He had expected then, to see a third person in the wreckage for Treville had told his father that three people had made the journey. However, there was no sign of the other survivor. It seemed then, that all three had survived. But which two had the San cared for? There was blood on the pilot's door, so he hoped that one of them was Athos. But who had sat in the passenger seat? Was it common for Athos to allow guests to sit up there? He did not know. The tribespeople would no doubt have moved on now, so the mystery would remain.

Later, after he had placed the transmitter on top of the ruined control panel, he climbed inside and looked around. There was not much left. Hopefully, all the necessary items had been taken by Athos and d'Artagnan, but his heart was heavy.

Musket was still barking, refusing to leave the pilot's side of the aircraft, but Rach managed to take him away and together, they slipped through a breech in the tall rocks and sat in the shade, awaiting the arrival of Porthos and Aramis.

 **To be continued ...**


	19. Chapter 19

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

 **A few days earlier: The San camp:**

The San people were gathered around their camp site of the previous evening. Five of the men were preparing to accompany Athos and d'Artagnan while the other tribesmen, women and children were disbanding their huts. The woven grasses they had used for the roofs were bundled together and tied to the backs of two of the men. Some of the branches were also bundled up to be taken to their next camp. They did not overburden themselves; as there were grasses and branches in abundance on the veld, but in the heat, it conserved their energy to reuse their previous camp's resources.

They brought water in skins made from goat hide and each tribesman carried a woven bag with dried meat, berries and nuts for the onward journey. Athos and d'Artagnan had very little to carry now, their own stock of water had been used. They would need to stop frequently as they would have no chance of keeping up with these experienced bushmen. Two of the men carried extra bows and arrows for hunting meat. Extra water would be gathered along the way from desert melons, which looked like pomegranates, and from particular roots, dug from the earth.

d'Artagnan and Athos watched the final preparations. As nomads, the San carried their possessions with them. They carried with them animal skin blankets, and a small hide bag. They each had a cloak, called a "kaross." The kaross had multiple uses, from carrying their meagre belongings, their gathered provisions, their babies and their tools.

The group split into two. Five San led the way out of camp on a dry dusty trail they had not noticed yesterday, but was now evident as the men walked ahead. The others had noisily made their goodbyes. The small girl who had sat with d'Artagnan the previous evening raised her hand at him, and he waved back, before she ran after her mother. Soon, the larger group would move on.

"Ready?" Athos said, pulling his hat low.

"As I'll ever be," d'Artagnan grimaced, working his shoulder in a circle. "How do youfeel?"

Athos thought for a moment. His head was much better. His ribs had settled where the safety belt had bruised him and he was feeling quite hopeful. They were in the best hands with these bushmen. For an anthropologist, he thought, this was the stuff of an academic paper worthy of publishing.

"Fine," he replied. "We are in good hands."

They tied their scarves around their faces to conserve moisture and set off.

The San are slight people with prematurely wrinkled skin and Athos and d'Artagnan tower above them. They are skilled in desert survival and will show them how to find the desert melons and roots necessary for their water supply.

One of the San drew another sand picture that showed them there was still a way to go. Athos thinks they will walk until mid day, when the sun is high in the sky and then rest, before continuing in the later afternoon, when it is cooler. By nightfall, they will make another camp and more shelters. He tells d'Artagnan that they must try to keep a low profile but he doubts that Koslov is trailing them. Rather, he will be ahead of them. That would be the sensible thing to do.

When all is prepared, they moved along the trail after their five guides.

"Do not be surprised if you see them veer away from the trail at some points," Athos said quietly to d'Artagnan.

"The San avoid burial places," he explained. "Once a San dies, they are buried immediately; then the burial place is thereafter avoided and never intentionally crossed again."

"How do you know?" d'Artagnan whispered, watching the five bushmen moving quietly ahead.

"I wrote a paper on the burial practices of indigenous peoples. My particular favourite was the Parsi, of Mumbai, who make use of vultures," he replied.

"Tell me when we get out of this," d'Artagnan responded, in disgust.

"It's no different to what animals do," Athos smiled. "I thought you were a vet," he chided.

"It's hardly a topic for conversation when we are stuck in the middle of the Kalahari!" d'Artagnan countered firmly.

"Point taken," Athos laughed.

They walked for a few hours, until the sun began to reach height in the clear sky and the San made a shelter. Athos determined they would stay here over the hottest part of the day, noon, although three of the San left, obviously to hunt.

They returned with only nuts and berries, no doubt to add to their supplies in their bags and would no doubt hunt for meat later in the afternoon when the animals were moving again. No opportunities would be missed by these people, whose in-built instinct was to hunt and to gather.

As before, they did not eat much, as that would only stimulate their thirst, so the nuts and berries were sufficient to satisfy their hunger pangs. They had also eaten plenty the night before, which helped.

Before they left their mid day shelter, Athos made a rock cairn, to show they had been there. He had no doubt Koslov was ahead of them, waiting for them. But if the cessna was found at some point, by Porthos, Aramis or others, they may find this sign. He scratched his initials on the top stone with a sharp stone and when they set off he would scratch an arrow in that direction.

They moved off at what Athos judged to be late afternoon. They would now walk until they found a safe place to spend the night. The San were courteous and both Athos and d'Artagnan knew that if they were not with them, the bushmen would be moving quicker, but they were doing this for them, and time did not hold the same importance to these tribesmen.

They walked under trees, where possible. Soon the trail disappeared, but the San walked on, until the land dipped and they found themselves heading into a narrow ravine that stretched some thirty feet long, before rising again. The San constructed another shelter and then stationed a man at each end to warn off any inquisitive animals that may come near, until a fire was lit. The fire would deter them and it was a welcome sight when the light dropped away and darkness fell.

Earlier, the San had held a quick hunt and had come back with two wild goats from a large herd they had seen to the west.

The smell of roasting meat was a delight. This time, there were no stories and laughing; merely polite sharing of food and fruit and the expectation that everyone would sleep. They removed the bandannas they had tied around their faces during the day and wiped the back of their necks and faces. Water was too precious to use for washing, but the Delta hopefully awaited them, and in late November, the lagoons would be filling from the water that was slowly making its way from the hills and mountains of neighbouring Angola.

And so, they hunkered down, jackets that had previously been tied around their waists were now thrown over their shoulders. The daytime temperatures, though not as hot as the Sahara, could still fry a person, but by the time sunset rolls around, it is a huge relief. But then comes the nightmare of the desert at night when temperatures drop and drop. Shelter and warmth go a long way toward keeping energy and spirits up. Finding a cosy spot to hunker down before it gets cold is almost as important as finding a shady spot during the day, and the San had done that.

oOo

The Arab and Koslov had kept the San under covert surveillance.

It was not difficult to spot two tall Europeans amongst a group of small, wiry Bushmen.

"We wait," Koslov said, after Naaji suggested killing them all;

"The San will take them where they want to go and we will be there."

"Or we could just kill them," Naaji repeated in disgust.

"The San are national treasures, Abbas. There would be an outcry. And they are skilled barbaric hunters. It is ten against two. Not worth it. This is much simpler and more enjoyable. Besides, those two are not in good shape. We will get ahead of them and await their arrival."

Koslov was happy to watch their progress from afar. He had grown to enjoy the psychological chase as much as the physical one.

He would step in if it looked like the young man was in trouble. He needed him. Not the other one. He was expendable and he would take great delight in killing him for putting he plane down they way he did. He knew they were both carrying injuries. It would be a sweet victory to take them, when they thought they had finally reached safety.

His own ribs were bruised, but he had been fortunate to have wedged himself between the seats and put his head down, so escaping serious injury.

Soon, when the damn tribesmen had gone, he would separate them.

 **To be continued ...**


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N:** As always, many thanks for reading, reviewing and messaging.

oOo

 **CHAPTER TWENTY**

"I didn't ask you to come," Anne said casually as they packed up the truck.

The lionesses were sharpening their claws.

They had barely spoken ten words to each other and had passed what seemed like a very long night.

"You would not survive out here without me," Nkosi hissed back, barely holding onto her temper. It was a new feeling for her.

"Oh, please," Anne smirked, enjoying herself. "I assure you, I can take care of myself."

"Like you did last night behind the rocks?" Nkosi threw straight back at her, a smile of triumph on her face at the memory of Anne's surprised yelp last night in the midst of her ablutions.

"I killed the damned lizard," Anne replied, curling her lip.

Nkosi's eyes went wide.

"Why would you _do that_?" she breathed, staring at her. "It was in its own territory! It was you who was the intruder."

"Because it was there!" Anne snapped back.

" _How_ did you do it?" Nkosi asked, a few moments later; surprised this Western woman could kill a fast-moving reptile.

Anne opened her mouth to reply when suddenly their heated exchange was disturbed by a faint beeping noise.

"Listen!" Nkosi said, leaning into the truck and turning the receiver up.

It was a faint, staticky but constant beep. Nkosi had heard it before, when they all been out in the bush, tracking.

"It is a transmitter!" she cried, their sniping forgotten as she looked at Anne.

"It could be a trap," Anne said, staring at the transmitter as if it would inform her of such.

"I don't care," Nkosi replied, in excitement. "Get in!"

Huffing, Anne gathered her belongings and dumped them on the back seat.

After a short argument about who would drive, to her surprise, Nkosi won and gunned the truck away from their disbanded camp.

She steered the truck until the signal was the strongest and then put her foot hard on the accelerator until the engine screamed.

Easing back after a glare from her disgruntled passenger, she maintained a steady speed, following the signal as it grew stronger.

"We have weapons," she said, in answer to Anne's earlier comment.

Forty five minutes later, they saw a rock escarpment ahead. It was the only geographical feature, amid trees and tall grasses. Around them the landscape was changing from flattened grassland to gouged earth. Anne reached into the back of the truck and pulled out the rifle from the rear footwell.

Nkosi eased off the accelerator and slowed the truck until they came to a halt. They both stared ahead. Amid the obvious devastation, the plane was ahead of them, broken into three pieces.

Nkosi put her hand to her mouth, but it was Anne who climbed out.

"Come on," she said firmly, hefting the rifle onto her shoulder.

Unsure of Anne's intentions, Nkosi leapt out and ran after her.

It was eerily quiet as they got closer.

Anne lowered her rifle and stood guard while Nkosi climbed carefully into the wrecked plane. The transmitter was stuck to the wrecked control panel. Shattered glass lay everywhere.

"They are not here," Nkosi shouted, crestfallen.

Anne though, breathed a sigh of relief. She was not ready to look on the broken body of her husband.

oOo

 **A short distance away:**

Rach had rested and fed himself and Musket, all the time watching the horizon for evidence that his signal had been heard; confident that Porthos and Aramis would pick it up and make their way toward him. He had no idea how far away they were, or whether they were even in range, nor how long he would wait before deciding on his next move, should they not come. Musket seemed calm, happy no doubt to be near a place where his master had been.

Every time Rach saw a cloud of dust on the horizon, his heart jumped and he squinted against the sun. Twice it had come to nothing and whatever was out there moved on. Each time his hand dropped to Musket's head and he scrubbed the dogs ears, murmuring reassurances that the next time, it would be the men from Heshima.

The morning wore on and he was beginning to gather his provisions together when another cloud of dust appeared on the horizon. This time it was purposeful and fast moving, not the languid trail that a herd might kick up. It was a vehicle and it was coming toward them. Staying where he was, he hunkered down and watched as the truck drew closer; his hand tightening in the dog's scruff. This could either be help, or danger, and he would keep them both hidden until he knew who the occupants of the truck were.

Hoping to see Porthos and Aramis, he watched as the truck drew closer and was momentarily stunned when he saw Nkosi and a dark-haired woman jump out.

He waited, as his sister climbed into the plane; wanting to see what the relationship was with the two women before he showed himself.

Nkosi remained inside the plane while the other woman stood guard with the rifle, scanning the horizon.

When he was sure that Nkosi was not being held at gunpoint by this woman he slowly stood, his hand on Musket's head, and made his way through the breach in the rock where they had taken shelter, toward the plane.

oOo

At the sudden movement behind them, Anne turned and swung her rifle around, pointing it toward the escarpment.

A single figure emerged slowly, accompanied by a large white dog.

"Good God, it's Mowgli," Anne said, raising the rifle to her shoulder and eyeing the Musket. "And his pet wolf."

At Anne's exclamation, Nkosi came forward and looked through the gash in the cockpit.

"Wait!" she shouted in surprise. "It is my brother!"

Anne however, kept the rifle trained on their visitors.

"Which one?" she replied, allowing her eyes to roam appreciatively over his torso, noting the knife in the belt slung low on his hips.

"Rach," Nkosi said quietly, as she jumped nimbly down from the plane and faced him.

Seeing Musket standing calmly with her brother, realisation came to her.

"It was you who put the transmitter in the plane?" she asked him. It was the most she had spoken to him in a long time.

He nodded. "Porthos gave it to me," he said. "They will be coming now."

Still a little shocked, Nkosi took in his appearance.

"You are on foot?"

"The true Tswana way," Rach said, his eyes bright.

Tears sprang to Nkosi's eyes. Of all the people searching for Athos and d'Artagnan, she would not have thought that her youngest brother would be among them. Without the trappings he had coveted last year, but in the manner of his people. Her father had worked his magic.

"And you found the plane. Before anyone," she murmured, so touched that he would do this, for Athos.

Just then Musket started to bark at Anne. She lowered her rifle grudgingly, glaring at him.

"Moosket is a good tracker dog," Rach smiled then. "We are a team."

Nkosi's bottom lip quivered and she took a step closer to her brother.

"Oh, my brother," she whispered before throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly.

Then, while Anne rolled her eyes, she hugged Musket, because he was Athos's dog.

For this brief moment, things seemed a littler more hopeful.

oOo

Still some miles away, in the late afternoon and once more on the move, Porthos and Aramis were scanning the savannah. They were still a few hours off the sun beginning to dip, heralding the cooler temperatures of twilight, and they were both becoming irritable after their enforced stop to change the tyre following their encounter with Koslov and Naaji.

"If you say the words, "needle" and "haystack" together in one sentence one more time, my friend, I will put something in your coffee tonight," Aramis said.

"You wouldn't dare," Porthos growled.

"You wouldn't see it coming," Aramis replied sweetly, casting him a less than sweet glance.

Truth be told, they were both on the edge of their nerves. Each hour that passed was torture and the only saving grace was that they had some measure of where Koslov and Naaji were heading. That could change, of course, but at the moment, all they wanted was to find the plane.

"Don't bet on it," Porthos was saying, when Aramis suddenly shushed him.

"Who're you shushin'? Porthos growled, and then he nearly jumped out of his skin when their transmitter started to crackle.

"I thought I heard something!" Aramis declared in triumph as he reached out and turned the dial on the transmitter.

The crackle began to clear and then the faint beeping came through.

Porthos braked suddenly, slewing the truck on the dry earth. He switched off the engine and they both stared at the transmitter, straining to hear through the remaining intermittent static.

And then, he whooped.

"He's only gone and found them!" he cried as the transmitter signal continued to beep.

"Good boy," Aramis breathed, beginning to laugh along with Porthos.

They threw their arms carelessly around each other and slapped shoulders.

Suddenly, the radio burst into life and Aramis grabbed the handset. It was Nkosi.

"What's happened, cheri? Where is Treville" he asked, frowning; thinking she was calling from The Garrison.

"We are at the plane, Aramis," he heard her shout. "We've found it! It has crashed."

Aramis looked quickly at Porthos, their smiles dying. It was their worse case scenario.

"What's she doin' there?" Porthos yelled. "Who's she with?"

"Who are you with, cheri? Is Rach with you?" Aramis asked, knowing Rach was out there somewhere and desperately thinking she would need support if the plane was down and Athos and d'Artagnan were ...

"Yes, he is here!" she interrupted, with pride in her voice. "And Anne," she added, a little more soberly.

"Say what?" Porthos said. "What's _she_ doin' there?"

"Porthos listen to me!" Nkosi shouted;

"There is no sign of Athos and d'Artagnan. But I have some news! Rach spoke to some San people who said some of their people had set off to look for a plane that came down. He followed their directions and found the plane. They were injured and San helped them. Rach thinks they took Athos and d'Artagnan with them."

"So they are alive," Aramis breathed, closing his eyes.

"I hope so, Aramis. But there is no sign of Koslov either."

"That's alright, cheri," Aramis said. "We have encountered Koslov and his friend. We have a rough idea where they are going. We are safe for now."

"How bad's the plane?" Porthos shouted, high on adrenaline and wanting answers.

"What's the condition of the plane, Nkosi?" Aramis relayed.

"The front is broken away from the fusilage," she replied. "It looks like it skidded a long way."

"And?"

"The tail is broken off."

"So, Koslov could have escaped from the back?"

"Yes, he could."

"Is there no sign of them at all, Nkosi?"

"No," she said, an edge of panic in her voice.

"Be wary of Anne, Nkosi," he said, not caring if Anne heard him or not. "She arrived with Koslov. We don't know why she is here, but we know what she is capable of."

"Rach is with me," Nkosi repeated. Anne was not near her; she was sitting in the shade, fanning herself.

"Is there any trail to follow? Anything at all?"

"I would have thought Athos would have left us something," Porthos muttered, next to him.

Nkosi was talking to her brother.

"Rach says he may have left something but it doesn't mean we will find it," Nkosi said.

"Is the dog with them?" Porthos suddenly said.

Aramis asked the question and Nkosi replied.

"Affirmative," Aramis said to Porthos.

"Good," he grunted, which made Aramis smile.

"Tell us what you can see, cheri," Aramis said to Nkosi now, "and we'll set off in the SUV. Are you ok to stay there and wait for us?"

"Yes, we have plenty of supplies and water and there is shade."

She described the area as best she could. The tall escarpment was the main landmark and together with the transmitter, she was confident they would find them.

"Alright. Hold tight."

"Aramis?"

"Yes, cheri?"

"Do you think they are alright?"

"Well, they have moved, so they must be mobile."

They heard her gasp then.

"Nkosi?!"

"I have just found a spent bullet in the cabin, Aramis," she said quietly. "And one in the control panel."

"Hold on. From the strength of your signal, we are about two hours away. We're coming, cheri" he said.

oOo

 **Meanwhile:**

"Save your ammunition," Koslov hissed, after Naaji shot the antelope.

He was leaving a trail of destruction, shooting indiscriminately. Koslov had steered the truck away from the herds they encountered for fear of starting a stampede and giving their location away. But it was lone animals that were drawing Naaji's attention.

"There is no sense to it, damn you!" Koslov snarled.

Naaji laughed.

"I didn't take you for an animal lover, Koslov. Look at it this way, I am not killing those damned San people, or your precious Europeans, but I am providing food for other animals! It's your fault for allowing de la Fere to crash the plane. If you had controlled them, we would have them on the ground and we would have information by now."

He laughed again as he lined up another antelope and Koslov felt a chill run through his blood. It wasn't so much the slaughter, he had seen enough blood in his time. It was Naaji's whole demeanour.

He had no doubt that Naajj would one day have _him_ in his sights to fulfill his blood lust.

Just for a little "sport."

oOo

 **To be continued ...**


	21. Chapter 21

Time for a little campside chat ...

 **CHAPTER TWENTY ONE**

Nkosi had never been so relieved to see Aramis and Porthos. As they pulled in next to the wreck, she ran forward and Porthos pulled her into a hug. Aramis looked over at Anne and Rach and gave them a wave. Musket was barking, but Aramis called him forward and after he had sniffed at them for a few minutes, he settled down and went back to Rach.

Porthos crawled through the wreckage, while Aramis studied the dried blood on the pilot's door. He was not sure Nkosi had seen it, so he kept quiet. There was not much left in the interior. Someone had taken what they needed and left everything else.

Out of the women's earshot, Rach quietly explained seeing the bandage and the strap in the San's hut. He pointed to the seat belts and told Aramis it was the same material and had been used as a sling.

Aramis clapped him on the shoulder.

Later, they gathered material and made a fire. They all had brought provisions and they ate in silence. Although they all had questions, no-one seemed willing to voice them.

Porthos and Aramis, though, told them about the attack on their truck, and that there had been two assailants. Anne had shrugged her shoulders when asked if Koslov was working with anyone. Perhaps she didn't know but of course they knew that the man had to be Abass Naaji. They briefed them on how dangerous the man was, and how unpredictable. It showed the lengths Koslov was willing to go to hire a man like that, Aramis had said.

They all fell into uneasy silence.

Later, Nkosi went to sit by herself in the truck and Aramis moved to sit with Rach and Musket.

Porthos found himself sitting across the fire, looking at Anne de Brueil, who was lost in thought and absently poking at the fire, sending sparks up into the night sky.

He stared at the woman in front of him. So this was Athos's wife.

Feeling herself being watched she looked up.

"What is it you want?" Porthos asked her quietly, out of earshot of Aramis and Rach.

Anne sighed and went back to staring into the fire.

"I suppose I just wanted to see what sort of life he had made for himself," she finally answered.

"So you can destroy it."

She tensed and looked across at him, before recovering and giving him a smirk.

"If that's what you want to believe."

The woman was infuriating. He had only known her a short while, but his view of her was fuelled by the effect she had had on his friend. When Athos had been caught up in fever-fuelled hallucination following his snare injury, Porthos had heard his entreaties and had hated her ever since. Treville had warned them then that Athos had not been present when Anne killed his brother, and Porthos would normally give someone a fair hearing, but the evidence had stacked up and she wasn't helping by the way she had been acting.

"What then?" he found himself asking. "Tell me, 'cos I've seen what it did to him."

She laughed.

"Six years in prison," she said, tersely. "I've suffered too."

Porthos felt his hands curl into fists and took a deep breath. The fire reflected in his dark eyes and gave him an unholy look.

"You were convicted of killin' his brother," he growled.

"Yes, I remember," she glared back at him, eyes blazing. "Because I wanted out. Thomas was a sadist."

Porthos was taken aback.

"Say what?"

She pulled down the silk scarf she had tied around her throat.

There was a long, thin horizontal scar along the otherwise smooth white skin.

"He did this," she hissed, "because I told him I wanted to end it."

"So you killed him."

"We fought," she replied angrily, but keeping her voice down. "He had a terrible temper; and he was a violent man when angry. He got off on going behind Athos's back. It was a shame, because underneath all that, he was Athos's brother and had some of his qualities."

"So that's what drew you to 'im," Porthos growled. "And you didn't write Athos off completely then."

She turned away.

"No," she said softly. "But Athos wrote _me_ off! He loved his work more than he loved me."

"Why didn't you claim self defence?" Porthos asked then.

She snorted.

"I did, but it was impossible to prove. My fingerprints were all over the weapon, which was conveniently in my hand when the police arrived."

Porthos did not reply. He looked at her, assessing her, until she spoke again.

"They gave me life imprisonment. Athos didn't even wait to hear the verdict."

"So how did you get out?"

"Well," she smiled, recovering her composure. "That's another story. One which brought me here."

oOo

 **Later:**

"Well done, my friend. That was quite a feat," Aramis said, as he bathed Rach's feet in cold water.

He had noticed that although Rach wore leather sandals, his feet were chafed. Since they had parted company in his village Rach had covered many miles. Unused as he must be to such long distance running, it was an exceptional achievement.

"It was luck that took me to the San," Rach replied shyly.

"Not just luck. Skill too. Do not under-estimate yourself," Aramis replied. "There. All done," he added as he wiped his hands on a wipe from his kit.

" _Asante_ , Aramis," Rach said, as he tied his sandals on again. (Thank you)

"So, they have been cared for?" Aramis now asked, stowing his kit back in the SUV.

"Yes. I am sure of it. There was the bandage and the …" he made the action for a sling, and Aramis nodded.

"So they are injured," Aramis stated, worrying about the spent bullets that Nkosi had found. "But they are no longer there."

"No, five of the San have moved out and they have gone with them."

Musket whined and Rach scrubbed his ears.

"He is upset. He picked up Athos's scent in the hut, but the bandage had a strange smell and he was confused."

"A treatment of sorts?" Aramis asked hopefully. The San were know for their healing skills. He had read about the medicines that some of the indigenous peoples used, and had spoken with Athos and d'Artagnan about it. d'Artagnan was experimenting with natural remedies, as was he.

"Yes, I think so," Rach nodded.

" _Bien_ ," Aramis murmured, before pinning him with a careful stare, "We should get some sleep, my young friend."

Rach took himself off to the edge of their camp, followed by Musket, who curled up behind him.

Aramis rose slowly and walked over to the SUV. Porthos had dropped the front seat back and was now snoring with his hands clasped on his chest. Aramis smiled and slipped into the back seat. He was happy to see Porthos at rest. He had been wound up tighter than he had ever seen him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, willing sleep to come to him too.

"Be safe, my friends," he whispered as he reached for his crucifix and rubbed it between his fingers.

"Be safe."

oOo

At the other side of the camp, Nkosi sat with her back resting against their truck, watching Anne who was brushing her hair.

Anne stopped and looked across at her, pinning her with a steady gaze.

"Ask me anything," she said quietly. "I know you are dying to."

Nkosi drew up her knees to her chin and linked her arms around her legs tightly.

She did not want to be drawn in by the woman, but she was so curious and so she lifted her chin defiantly and asked her one of the many questions that had been spinning around her head since she had met her.

"Why did you do it?" she asked.

"Why did I murder Thomas?" Anne asked, arching an eyebrow and throwing the hairbrush down.

"No," Nkosi replied. "Why did you sleep with him?"

Anne looked surprised. She was not expecting that question. She was, after all, a convicted murderer. People usually wanted to hear about that. She enjoyed her notoriety.

Anne did not reply.

"Alright, why did you kill him?" Nkosi asked.

"I didn't," Anne replied simply.

There was silence for a while and then Anne sighed.

"I hit him. If you read the Coroner's report, you will see that he had a head injury. That was me. But it was _not_ enough to kill him."

"Then how did he die?"

"Athos didn't tell you?" Again, Anne was surprised. She would have thought Athos would enjoy maligning his cheating, murdering wife to his new girlfriend.

Nkosi's face told its own story. So, _they had their secrets_ , Anne considered.

"Gunshot wound to the back of the head. Hardly self-defence, according to the jury," Anne said, with an imperceptible shudder. "My fingerprints were all over the gun."

"Why did you start an affair with Thomas?" Nkosi rephrased her original question.

The natural sounds of the Kalahari filled the still night air. In the camp, all was quiet, as Nkosi waited patiently for an answer.

"The simple answer is, I was bored. Isn't that _awful_?" she sneered at the look on Nkosi's face.

"Athos's work took over," she continued. "Too many candlelit dinners that were never eaten. Do you have candlelit dinners over here?" she added sarcastically. "No, I suppose not."

"So you were angry with him," Nkosi countered.

Anne looked away, her hard mask shifting.

"Of course, I was. I got the would-be professor," Anne smiled, looking across at Nkosi. "This African version is so much more exciting.

"And then, in court," she continued, "I got the betrayed, vengeful husband."

"You _did_ betray him," Nkosi said quietly.

"So, he told you all?"

"No, he didn't," Nkosi replied firmly.

"Ah, but it came to pass," Anne said. "His friends. How nice to have such support."

"Friendship is not lightly given. It is deserving when rightly bestowed." Nkosi said.

"A charming sentiment," Anne muttered.

"I _loved_ him," she said simply. "I wanted him to _be_ with me. I wanted us to go to concerts and to travel. He is an attractive man. Can you imagine what it feels like, to be sidelined like that?!"

"His work was important to him," Nkosi stated. She had seen that, when he had spoken about it to her. She had imagined his students, all learning about people like the Tswana, like her, and then going off into the world to help them.

"Oh, I don't think he did it on purpose," Anne sighed. "But one day, I came to my senses. And his brother was very persuasive. It seemed, however, he knew some very nasty people. He had enemies and one of them obviously found him unconscious by my hand and finished the job after I had gone. I came back, _full of remorse_ , and that's when the police came."

Anne watched the emotion playing across Nkosi, who was finding it hard to remain calm.

"He needs someone less passionate," Anne said suddenly, staring at her.

Nkosi looked away, seething.

Anne watched her reaction and smiled. "Less passionate than _me_ , Nkosi," she said. "But, _honourable_ ," she added.

Nkosi looked back at her.

"He likes honourable," Anne said quietly.

oOo

"I never really realised how much he loved his work," Anne said, a little later. "I just got a little bored."

It had surprised her how she had talked to this young woman, worlds away from her own experience.

"So his brother was just a distraction?" Nkosi said.

"He was a bad boy. What woman is not attracted to bad boys?" Anne smiled.

Nkosi looked at her uncomprehending.

"Oh," Anne said, "Sorry."

"My father says that love is a blessing, to be cared for and cherished."

"Admirable," Anne said quietly.

Nkosi could not tell if Anne was being sarcastic, but let it go.

Anne though, was not being sarcastic. She was feeling jealous.

oOo

"Will you stay in Africa?" Nkosi asked Anne as they prepared for sleep.

"God, no," Anne replied quickly. "I need bright lights and excitement. I've been in prison for six years, dear."

"Will you go back to Paris?"

"Paris? no. Rome, Madrid, New York ..." Anne laughed.

"I have never been to any of those places," Nkosi admitted.

"You'll have to get Athos to take you," Anne replied.

"If he wishes," Nkosi repllied.

"No wonder Athos likes you."

It was obvious that it was more than that, but she could not bring herself to say "love."

"Not any more, I think," Nkosi replied, sadly.

"Why?"

"We … had an argument. According to my brother, Oba, I was unfair, and I think he is right. I regret it now."

"An argument about what?" Anne asked lightly, though very curious to know.

"It does not matter. But I would not speak to him and now he is gone."

Anne huffed, but did not pry further.

"Athos is an ex-soldier," she replied. "Wherever he is, he will be working out a plan."

"I hope so," Nkosi whispered. She knew he would be proactive, but hoped he was in a condition to do so.

"d'Artagnan may be a weak link though," Anne said, cautiously. "From my brief knowledge of him," she added.

"d'Artagnan is very capable!" Nkosi replied, annoyed once more at this turn of conversation.

"Is he?" Anne replied, innocently. "He doesn't look the type. I thought he'd be wrapped up with his animals."

"He loves the animals," Nkosi agreed, "But he is an expert on the computer and has developed lots of helpful programmes."

Anne smiled to herself, and filed the information away.

They fell into silence then.

Nkosi had never met anyone like Anne de Brueil. She could not imagine her with Athos. She was not sure she believed everything she said; especially the part about being full of remorse for hitting Thomas. She had learned a little more though, and would think on it during their journey back to the Delta in the morning.

"Good night," she said as she stood and moved away. The woman exhausted her and she had had enough of her company.

She would sleep as her brother was sleeping, in the open. The Tswana way. She looked across at him and saw that Musket had moved in front of him and Rach now had his arm around him; both asleep.

Something inside her melted a little more. She had her brother back. Perhaps, she could now start to forgive him.

oOo

In the morning, after they had all gathered themselves and their belongings and covered the dead fire with sand, they all prepared to depart.

"We head back toward the Delta," Porthos said. "We've got two trucks. For safety's sake I suggest Nkosi goes with Aramis, Anne with me. Rach, you decide who you and Musket want to travel with," he added, knowing that Nkosi and Rach had been estranged for a year. But to his delight he chose to travel with his sister.

"Dog goes with you," Porthos winked impishly at Aramis, who tipped his head and bowed low.

"My pleasure, mon ami," he replied.

"There are two of the bastards. We don't know where they are," Porthos continued. "We stay together. This is a long drive. There'll be another camp to make tonight. Then, we separate and go into the Delta from two different angles. We've both got radios. Keep in touch."

Everyone got into their vehicle, and Musket jumped up behind Aramis, settling down next to Rach on the back seat.

Nkosi had slipped into the passenger and gave Aramis a brief smile and he reached across and took her hand.

"No long now, cheri," he said, as he turned the key in the ignition.

In the other vehicle, Anne and Porthos had a brief "discussion" as to who would drive, and Porthos won, for now at least.

He pulled the truck out slowly and fell in behind Aramis.

It felt good to have a lead, but he would not rest until he set eyes on his two friends once more.

oOo

 **To be continued ...**


	22. Chapter 22

**CHAPTER TWENTY TWO**

The San had come to a halt at the carcasses of the elands that Naarji had shot. It was a sad sight.

d'Artagnan examined the nearest corpse. It had been partially eaten, but it was obvious both animals had died from gunshot wounds. d'Artagnan was going to dig the bullet out of one of them with his fingers, but Athos stopped him.

"Leave it," he said, indicating the San who were sitting apart from them, silently.

"The San revere the eland," Athos said. "They only hunt them when necessary or for very special occasions. They believe the eland is first among animals and his nearest kin in the animal world.

Their folklore says that animals were once humans who, after a disagreement, turned into elands. All other animals were subsequently born of the eland. They are the subject of most of the San rock paintings, going back thousands of years."

"I wish we could give them something for what they are doing for us," d'Artagnan said, as he watched the San paying their silent respects to the dead animals.

"Their economy is gift exchange," Athos answered, dropping down onto a nearby rock and stretching out his legs with a grimace. Truth be told he was glad of the stop. They were both suffering from their injuries and the heat.

"They have little understanding of private ownership," he continued, removing his hat and running his fingers through his damp hair.

"Their demands are few; they are constantly on the move. There is little cause for trade as they share nearly everything they need. The rest is picked up in the bush. We have nothing to give them. But they know that; they can see it," he finished.

"I have my belt?" d'Artagnan said suddenly.

It was a finely tooled strip of leather and he was happy to hand it over, it seemed.

"That is a good idea," Athos said. "I have mine too. Alright, when we part, we will offer them. If they cannot use them, they will say, but they will be delighted to be offered a gift in any case, I am sure. Don't be offended if they refuse. It merely means they cannot use it."

They sat in silence for a while, watching the tribesmen.

"What do you miss most?" Athos asked quietly.

When d'Artagnan looked at him, Athos tilted his head. "It seems we have been away so long."

"My laptop," d'Artagnan replied with a smile. "You?"

Athos was quiet for a moment, before spreading his hands in front of him and staring at the bracelet gifted to him by Nkosi. Her beautiful face swam before his eyes and for a moment, he had to blink the image back.

"My right hand," he murmured.

d'Artagnan reached across and squeezed his shoulder.

"And Porthos," Athos added, with a quiet huff of a laugh, while again running his fingers through his hair.

"Of course," d'Artagnan replied, suppressing a smile.

Taking the opportunity of their good humour, d'Artagnan leant forward.

"Let me look at your ankle?"

"It's fine," Athos answered immediately.

d'Artagnan sighed.

"I'm relying on you to get us out of here," he said softly.

Athos tensed.

"That is not fair," he said, raising his eyes to look at him; his tone low.

"It's all I could think of."

"Then you have no imagination," Athos growled, but he began to unlace his boot and d'Artagnan slid off the rock and crouched in front of Athos, taking hold of the heel of his boot and easing it off.

Athos hissed as it came off, reaching down to peel back his damp sock, which he laid on the rock d'Artagnan had vacated. His ankle was criss-crossed with flat scar tissue from his original injury and the corrective procedures he had had since to eradicate the build up of ketoid scarring from the main wound, which had bitten deep into the tissue.

d'Artagnan was pleased to see there was only a mild redness over the area. Aramis had done an excellent job.

"It's fine," d'Artagnan smiled, to which he received a stare from Athos.

"I think the walking has helped, rather than hindered," Athos replied, reaching for his sock.

"But a little medicinal San paste will no doubt help further," d'Artagnan grinned, before wandering over to the group of tribesmen to retrieve the remedy they carried with them.

Athos sighed and left the sock were it was.

oOo

They eventually continued on their journey, following the same procedures for the next two days; walking when the desert was at its coolest and resting when the heat became unbearable.

d'Artagnan and Athos helped as much as they could, but they were becoming exhausted, and despite the moisture provided, dehydrated. d'Artagnan's skin was olive-toned and bore up well, but Athos's skin was pale and despite keeping as well-covered as he could, his face and hands bore the brunt of the sun and had darkened considerably.

"Will you divorce your wife now?" d'Artagnan asked as they trudged along a sandy track; eyes, as always on the shimmering horizon.

The San were ahead, in single file. One or two separated occasionally to scope the land no doubt, and hunt, but always returned to the main group toward the end of the afternoon. Sometimes, they had a kill, or some fruit and roots. They had dried the remains of the goat they had had the first night and they had all chewed on some of the resultant leather-like strips when they stopped to rest.

"Of course," Athos replied. "However this goes, it is something I should have done a long time ago."

After a moment, he stopped.

Realising he was on his own, d'Artagnan turned back and raised his eyebrows.

"And, I want to take Nkosi to Paris," Athos said, as if he had just realised it. "I would like to see her face when I show her the Champs-Elysees."

d'Artagnan smiled and walked the few paces back to him.

"She'll love that," he said, reaching out and taking hold of his forearm and gently pulling him on.

"We'd better keep moving then," he said.

"I'd love a nice juicy burger," he muttered after a few steps.

"I am sure Porthos will oblige when we return," Athos smiled, as they walked side by side under the late afternoon sun.

oOo

They were beginning to think their health would fail them when the San stopped and one of them pointed to the horizon.

In the distance, the sky was dark. Clouds were forming.

There was an air of expectation.

"The first rains," Athos said. "One more night, and we will see the Delta."

oOo

Travelling along in the SUV behind Aramis, Porthos and Anne were getting a little better acquainted. She had surprised him last night with some of her revelations.

Now she showed him a blurred image of Koslov, taken with her phone camera, "for insurance," she said. And then a covert one of Michelin Barout, obviously taken without her knowledge.

"You wanted to know how I was released. It's not a pretty tale," she said.

"He blackmailed my barrister into giving false DNA evidence. That introduced just enough doubt to get me a parole hearing."

"How do you know he blackmailed her?"

"He told me. He took great delight in it. And she'd more or less confirmed it."

She turned in her seat and studied Porthos's profile as he drove. Finally, feeling her gaze, he looked at her.

"What?"

"I didn't kill Thomas, Porthos. All I am guilty of is knocking him unconscious. I told Nkosi that last night."

"She didn't say," he grunted, looking back through the windscreen.

"She doesn't trust me. I'm used to that," Anne replied.

"Go on," Porthos growled, hands tight on the wheel.

She turned her head and stared through the windscreen, oblivious to their surroundings.

"Thomas had a lot of enemies, it seemed. He was into all sorts of things. It is my belief he was being followed. I had a feeling whenever we were out that we were being watched."

She laughed, but it held no humour.

"I thought it was Athos," she said. "I thought he'd found out about us. But of course he was working all hours in the University."

"Go on," he grunted.

"Thomas and I may have been watched that night. After I had fled, someone came in and shot him. Athos had a suspicion about me and Thomas, I know. I saw the look in his eyes. I will never forget it." She straightened in her seat and rolled her head on her stiff shoulders. "But it was too late by then of course, we were all on the road to destruction."

"Do you still love Athos?" Porthos asked quietly.

Anne thought for a few moments.

"I think I will always love him, on some level," she replied softly.

"There's somethin' you should know," Porthos said, carefully, turning his head to look at her.

"What?" she asked, a frown on her face.

"Your barrister. She's dead. Murdered in her apartment. Didn't tell you because … well, Interpol are still trying to find out who did it. But they think they know."

"You thought I'd done it," she said flatly.

"Well, you 'ave got form, love."

"Koslov," she whispered. "He killed Michelin."

"Seems like it," Porthos replied.

"There's more," he added after a brief silence. "We think he's with a nutter called Naaji. He's worked with him before, according to information Treville got.

Anne did not reply.

For a hard woman, Porthos was surprised at the effect the news of Ms. Barout's death was having on her.

He had never thought to see tears in her eyes. She didn't seem the type to weep.

oOo

"I was _so_ angry," Anne said, a little later, her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands.

"As far as anyone was concerned, I was guilty. Michelin was the only one who listened."

Porthos hummed, but did not reply, keeping his eyes on the track.

"Oh, I know!" she ground out, "It was _her job_."

But he wasn't going to say that. If she'd known him just a little better, she would have known that.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her delete Michelin Barout's photo from her phone.

If he'd known her a little better, he would have understood why.

 **To be continued ...**


	23. Chapter 23

**CHAPTER TWENTY THREE**

It was time for the San to go.

They had brought them to the edge of the Delta. Now it was time for them to return whence they came.

They seemed excited and two of the tribesmen stepped forward and handed d'Artagnan a woven bag. Inside were two melons, some nuts and some of the dried meat strips. d'Artagnan bowed solemnly, which made Athos smile.

Along the way the San had hunted goat and small mammals, which were plentiful and they had eaten well. They had provided the medicinal paste, which seemed to have worked wonders, especially on the gash on Athos's arm, which was now sealed and healing. Now these few items were the San's parting precious gift to them.

d'Artagnan then laughed. He was exhausted, they both were, but suddenly, elated. With the help of the San, they had crossed part of the Kalahari.

They had spent precious time with these special, unique people, who had cared for their injuries and buoyed their spirits. They did not share a language, but they shared a humanity, separated by 20,000 years of progress on one side and a status quo on the other. At this moment, with the ever present threat of Koslov, Athos did not know which he preferred. Perhaps a mix of the two. He could perhaps try for that, here in Africa.

He suddenly thought of Nkosi with her gentle trust and love for her roots, which kept her in Africa when she had her mother's modern world to explore. She had found her nirvana here, he realised. His eyes unexpected filled with tears and he hoped he had a place still, by her side.

Catching his look, d'Artagnan stepped next to him and they both became caught up in the business of shaking hands.

Then, as d'Artagnan had suggested, they each gave the San their belts and the resultant bright smiles and clicking that the tribesmen made was well worth their "sacrifice."

In return, the San then handed them two bows and a sheath of arrows. One of the tribesmen stretched his finger toward the barb on the end of one of the arrows and shook his head, clicking his tongue in a warning.

"They are poisoned arrows," Athos said, carefully covering them and pulling the sheath onto his shoulder.

In the distance, thunder rolled as the strange group finally separated; one back to their own modern world and one to an uncertain future. Although, Athos thought, that could be said for either of their groups as he watched the San walk away, singing one of their songs; their step light on the red sand.

When they were out of sight, d'Artagnan eyed the sheath of arrows dubiously.

"Can you use a bow?" he asked Athos, staring at the primitive weapon in his hand.

Athos looked at his own bow, before looking at d'Artagnan.

"How hard can it be?" he murmured.

They found out later when they stopped, drawing back the cord was hard, straining all their shoulder muscles. In d'Artagnan's case, that led to physical pain from his relocated shoulder joint. In Athos's, the ache from his various bruises were intense.

"Let's hope we don't have to use them," Athos said, panting from the exertion.

"What else do we have?" d'Artagnan replied.

Athos fell silent. Nothing.

Two primitive bows against modern automatic weapons. They would need all their cunning to avoid the threat. But, exhausted and hot, he did not feel up to the challenge.

oOo

An hour later, Athos and d'Artagnan came within sight of the Delta ahead of them.

"It's not a mirage is it?" d'Artagnan sighed, sinking down onto a rock.

"If it is, then the San have been fooled too," Athos murmured, taking in the sight on the horizon.

"Rest, and then we'll push on," he added.

"I never want to hear those words again," d'Artagnan replied, though he also gladly found a rock to collapse onto, elbows on his knees and resting his head in his hands.

oOo

The Okavango river flows through the Kalahari into the Delta and forms a miriad of small inlets that feed into larger lagoons, where the animals come to drink and bathe. It is a veritable oasis. Along the edge of the water, tall grasses grow, which would at least shield them from watchful eyes.

As they moved further into the Delta, they saw that the water level had hardly risen; the real rain would come in February, but now, at the end of November, it was so good to see an abundance of water after the arid humidity of the Kalahari.

"Still feel like we're being watched," d'Artagnan whispered as they began to walk through the tall grass to the nearest stretch of water.

"It would be quite a coincidence if Koslov and whoever picked him up were waiting at the exact spot we entered," Athos grunted, though he did not take his eyes from the landscape ahead of them.

They were both exhausted, hot and in pain.

At the same time though, they were elated to think that had made it this far, without radios or weapons whilst knowing they would not have done so without the help of the San people.

"We need to make a plan, now we are here," Athos said. "But first we need to rest and then figure out how these bows work."

"Well, there are plenty of trees to shoot at, as long as we can retrieve the arrows."

"Poisoned arrows," d'Artagnan reminded him, sombrely.

"Quite," Athos muttered.

They were tired and filthy, their lips were cracked. They were bruised, sore and exhausted.

They slumped down on the bank of a narrow-winding waterway and blissfully dropped their feet into it.

"Don't drink the river water," Athos said, his eyes closed as he quietly waved his feet in the shallows. "And keep an eye out for crocodiles."

At that, d'Artagnan pulled his feet back in. "I know that. I'm a vet."

"We'll find some rainwater we can use; there will be some standing water from the rains, which, by the looks of it, are due any minute."

Sure enough, the heavens opened shortly after and the rain teemed down heavily. Having nothing else, Athos left his hat upturned to collect some of the rain and they both watched in fascination as it filled up. The rains stopped as suddenly as they started but they had collected a welcomed amount of drinking water.

"That looks better than champagne right now," d'Artagnan said. "And desert melons." he added.

"I think I may agree," Athos replied and they both laughed, for the first time in days as they slaked their thirst, tipping the rest over their heads.

Next, they washed in a shallow stretch of water, ever vigilant for unwanted company, of both the human and animal kind. Afterwards, they crawled out and sat beneath one of the mopane trees and let their limbs relax.

Now clean, to a degree, Athos heaved a sigh as he catalogued the mess his feet were in. d'Artagnan did the same as his were just as bad. They compared blisters before lapsing into exhausted silence.

After a short while, Athos spoke quietly.

"I still think we should separate. You should make for the tree house. I'll scout around and see if I can see any signs of our friend."

Athos was making light of it, but d'Artagnan knew that beneath the casual air, Athos was preparing to kill the man who had almost destroyed them last year, and proposed the greatest threat to them now. They were still far from the Garrison, with no means of communication. Apart from acquiring shade and water, nothing had changed.

d'Artagnan though, did not agree.

"No, Athos, we stay together. We've come this far, I won't let you do it."

Touched, Athos nodded but did not promise him he would do as he asked.

oOo

To the west of the Delta, Koslov and Naaji had also taken shelter from the sudden downpour in their truck, which they had hidden amongst a copse of trees and vegetation.

They were in much better condition, having had the truck to bring them this far, although their petrol was low now and there was only one can of fuel left.

They had made camp the previous day and when the rains came, they decamped back into the truck. From their last sighting of the San and the two Europeans yesterday, they had had time to keep a night fire going, knowing the San would not travel at night.

Everything depended upon this day, when they would all be in the Delta together.

Koslov's plans had had to change, he had intended to use the woman, Anne de Brueil, but the plane crash had ended that. He had no reason to believe she was not still at the Garrison and he would ensure she played her part in the Garrison's destruction. The lure of the rewards he had promised her would be too strong for a woman like her, who had been incarcerated for six years and needed to build a new life. He knew of a place he would take her when this was all over, until he had no further use for her.

"What of Robert McCauley?" Koslov asked as they set up camp.

"Ha!" The Arab muttered. "He thinks he has outwitted me, but he hasn't."

"What are you talking about?" Koslov replied angrily.

Naaji pulled out his tablets and shook two into his palm. Koslov noted there were very few left.

"I'll _find_ him," Naaji sing-songed, swallowing the tablets. "And his children."

"Do you have any more of those?" Koslov growled.

Naaji looked up at him and Koslov did not like the strange look in his eyes.

"I told you," Naaji suddenly smiled. "It's all under control."

But Koslov was beginning to realise that Naaji was, in fact, worse than the last time he had worked with him. Evidence of that was that McCauley had obviously slipped through his fingers. Had he had help? If so, did Treville know about him?

If Naaji had failed with McCauley, that left Koslov one option; the vet, d'Artagnan. No matter, he would get the information from him, and enjoy doing so.

Then he had an idea and began to speak of the Tswana. "It was their land before Treville bought it. They have lived here for generations. They will know about the diamonds. I am sure they can be coerced into talking about it. The old man will not let his people die to save a tract of stones that they cannot use," he had said. The Tswana had been keen to come to Heshima's aid when they had attacked the Garrison. Why do that unless they also had something to protect?

Naaji was moving around camp humming to himself. If they were to encounter Treville's men, he would need Naaji, but after that, he was definitely expendable. It would be a mercy to put him down.

In the meantime, they would wait for de la Fere and the vet to come to them.

oOo

Not too far away, further inland, d'Artagnan opened his eyes and stretched. He had not meant to fall asleep, but they had needed to rest and so he had closed his eyes for a short while, while Athos kept watch.

Looking around, he frowned.

Athos was nowhere to be seen.

d'Artagnan slammed his hand into the sand and cursed.

"Damn you, Athos. What are you doing!" he hissed.

 **To be continued ...**


	24. Chapter 24

**CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR**

Looking around in confusion, d'Artagnan saw that Athos had left the two bows and the sheath of arrows.

He had said he wanted to look for Koslov. Had that been his intention? Not to confront him, but just to try and find him? And then what?

d'Artagnan was not sure whether to wait or make his way west to the tree house. Playing back Athos's last words in his mind, he decided to go. It seemed that Athos did not want to leave him unarmed and did not want to split their cache of arrows, so he had left everything. Checking the bag that the San had given them, a little of the food had gone, and at least there was plenty of water now.

The man had always been difficult to figure out and during the last week, he thought he had more of his measure but this was a surprise. However, Athos was a trained soldier and no doubt had some plan or at least wanted more information before the inevitable confrontation took place.

He cupped his hand in the water from the inlet at his feet and threw it over his face, before filling his cap and pouring it over his head. Tucking his long wet hair behind his ears, he replaced his cap and slipped the two bows onto his right shoulder. Carrying the sheath of arrows in his left hand, he got his bearings and and then quietly made his way in the direction that he hoped would provide sanctuary, or at least some cover. If Athos did return, he would see that d'Artagnan was following their plan and would catch up. In light of his last words though, it made sense that he move on.

oOo

Some distance away in the desert, the two trucks driven by Porthos and Aramis made a brief stop to make final plans. The last leg was more difficult as brief heavy rain had turned the dry earth soft and mud clung to the tyres. The rain had been brief though and the sun was now returning the earth to sand and dust once more.

As they got closer to the Delta they would separate and enter from two different angles, each group taking a truck to survey and try and locate evidence of Koslov and Naaji. Both trucks had radios so that they could liaise with each other.

By unspoken agreement, Porthos and Aramis wanted to keep Anne with them, and Nkosi was happy to stay with Rach and Musket; both had proved themselves to be good trackers, and she was hopeful they could make some headway, if not with regard to Koslov and Naaji, then to the whereabouts of Athos and d'Artagnan.

Sharing out weapons, they said their brief goodbyes with unnecessary warnings to be careful, followed by hugs for all, apart from Anne, who had remained quiet and aloof from the whole group. She had not argued with the plan though and slipped into the rear seat of the first truck, behind Porthos and Aramis.

Nkosi took the wheel of the other truck with Rach beside her and Musket in the rear seat.

They both took off quietly, though in no doubt that they would soon be on the radar of two very dangerous men.

oOo

After an hour, Rach pointed out some small changes in the land ahead and Nkosi slowed the truck. Rach jumped out of the truck and headed carefully ahead, with Musket at his heels, before the dog overtook him and headed toward a circle of trees and disturbed earth.

It was Musket who found the remnants of a previous camp, with Rach and Nkosi close behind. Evidence of a camp fire was there to be seen. Musket did not react to any familiar scent and so they assumed they had found Koslov and Naaji's camp from the previous night.

Nkosi quietly radioed Porthos.

"They've moved on," she said after giving him their location. "Do you think they know we are here?"

"Almost certainly," Porthos replied. "We're like bugs under a microscope," he added.

"What do you want us to do?" Nkosi asked, her eyes darting around the clearing. Musket seemed calm though, which was a consolation. Despite being deaf, his sense of smell was acute and he was an excellent guard dog. If there were humans or animals around, he would alert them instantly.

After a brief discussion with Aramis off radio, Porthos came back. "We come back together now. There's only one place that Athos would head to now. Off the ground with a vantage point and a clear view."

"His tree house," Nkosi replied instantly.

"Don't come in too close," Porthos said. "We'll meet up at the lagoon east of the tree house, by the termite mounds and head further in on foot."

The immense termite mounds in the Okavango Delta were a dominant feature and the insects played a huge role in the Okavango eco-system. As part of their life cycle, the creatures would soon emerge in their millions now that the first rains had begun. Nkosi knew exactly where he meant.

"Alright," Nkosi replied, "We will see you soon."

"Yeah, you be careful," Porthos added before signing off.

oOo

The light was fading as they met up once more at the appointed place, the termite mounds rearing up in the distance, twice as tall as a man. They were still some miles from the tree house and it was with great reluctance that they made camp.

This time, there was little talk. They maintained silence and did not light a fire. There was a real tension in the air, as Aramis kept first watch. The tall red mounds in the distance cast strange shadows under a full moon. The addition of sudden wild cries of nocturnal animals meant they passed an uneasy night; what little sleep they got broken by Porthos taking the second watch.

When dawn eventually broke, they began to move around camp, making preparations to leave their vehicles and head out on foot. Porthos, Aramis and Rach had spent the night in the open with their weapons close by and the women had spent it in separate trucks, Anne saying she wanted a little privacy.

"Better wake Her Ladyship up, cheri" Aramis smiled at Nkosi as they were almost ready.

Nkosi made her way over to the truck, parked on the far side of the camp.

She threw open the door, intent on making the lazy woman jump, only to freeze.

"Porthos!" she called. "She's not here."

"Where the 'ell is she?!" he shouted, spinning around, before he, Aramis and Rach crossed quickly to the truck, all peering inside, as if Nkosi had made a mistake and the woman was in there somehow.

"She had a phone," Nkosi said, staring at Porthos. "Do you think she's gone to meet Koslov?"

"I can't believe it," Porthos growled, slamming his fist on the roof of the truck. "She spun me a line, damn her!"

"She cannot have lied about everything," Aramis said, running his hand through his hair, staring into the empty interior of the truck.

"How the hell do we know!" Porthos replied, angrily.

"Porthos," Rach said quietly behind him.

All eyes swung around to look at Rach;

"Where is Moosket?"

 **To be continued ...**


	25. Chapter 25

**CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE**

Anne de Brueil had slipped quietly away just before dawn, easily evading the others.

In the quiet of the evening her phone had silently vibrated, heralding an incoming text. She had wandered away and surreptitiously glanced at the screen.

It had simply said, " _Where r you_?"

She had feigned wanting privacy and had retreated on her own to the truck parked the furthest away. The resultant brief texted conversation had determined where both she and Koslov were. Not a million miles apart, it seemed.

She had watched as the camp stilled and went to sleep, apart from Aramis who took first watch. She had settled down to sleep herself then, secure in his guardianship of the camp and with a plan forming in her mind.

Now, though, alone and in the cold light of day, she found herself staring at the dog.

The dog stared back.

The damned animal had followed her.

He tilted his head from side to side as he seemed to weigh her up.

Her lip curled as she hefted the rifle further onto her shoulder.

She did not like dogs. Porthos had told her about this one. Athos's deaf dog; saved from a dogfighting ring in the township. So like Athos to be sentimental about a dog and yet so unsupportive of her.

She slowly reached into her pocket and took out the single leather glove she had taken from Rach at the crashed plane. She threw it down in front of the dog and took a step back. The dog bent its head to sniff. He nudged it to and fro and then, his tail wagged once.

She smiled.

"Find him, dog," she snarled quietly, and then louder: "Go find your master!"

The dog whined once and then took off.

She left the glove on the ground and watched the dog disappear, before looking around and moving off.

oOo

Athos had slept in worse places.

What had started as reconnaissance had turned into a little more as Athos had sought a vantage point with which to scan the vista.

He had ended up running out of time and had climbed up an escarpment, finding a ledge where he would be safe for the night. He was trying to tell himself that he was not going after Koslov as he had no weapon. But if he was, what was he intending to do if he found him? Perhaps he had not recovered fully from the concussion, or perhaps his lack of total sense had finally kicked in.

What drove him was the need to protect d'Artagnan, and thereby, his friends and Heshima itself.

He dropped down from the ledge at first light and had started back when something caught his attention.

Something was moving toward him at speed.

Tensing, he crouched down, watching as the streak bore down on him, but having nowhere to go.

At the last minute, he stood, ready to face whatever the threat was as best he could, only to be confronted not by a lion or, worse, a weapon-wielding gunman, but his own dog, Musket, bounding toward him; a joyous whine emitting from his throat.

The dog was ecstatic to see him, and Athos took the dog's face in his hands, his fingers softly stroking over his brow before reached up to scrub his ears; somewhat overjoyed himself.

"Musket! What are you doing here!" Athos laughed softly as the dog all but pushed him over. "How on earth did you get here, my friend?"

Here, at last, was something tangible. Something from his life that made sense, and he almost dissolved into tears.

"Look what you have done to me," he murmured, blinking back the moisture threatening to blur his vision, as he ran his hands over the dogs coat and checked his feet. If Musket had been in the desert long, he was in remarkably good condition.

He slowly stood and gave Musket his sign to sit. The dog instantly obeyed, long tongue lolling from his mouth, eyes glued to his own; waiting for his next command. Athos, though, was at a loss what to do next. The dogs sudden appearance had interrupted his plan to return the way he had come.

Sensing his master's unaccustomed indecision, Musket turned and ran a few paces back along the trail, before turning and barking once; wanting Athos to follow.

After a moment's indecision, which caused a further, louder bark, Athos followed.

They wound their way back along the trail, passing inlets of water, several times scaring flocks of birds which took to the sky with a loud crack of wings that made Athos crouch low, ready at any moment for the sound of gunfire. Where the hell was Koslov? It was all too damn quiet and he could not let his guard down now they were further into the Delta. He was on the lookout for the truck they had used. It had to be somewhere.

Ahead, lay something on the ground. Musket stopped and looked back at him.

"What is it, boy?"Athos asked, slowly approaching before bending and picking up the glove, running it through his fingers.

"This is mine," he murmured, staring at it in confusion.

" _Hello, Athos_."

The familiar voice rang clearly in the still air.

Athos looked up and the breath seized in his chest.

He stared at her. It was the first time he had been close to her since the last day of her trial. He did not stay to see her convicted.

"Anne," he gasped, as he staggered back, dropping the glove.

His wife sneered.

"You remember my name, at least," she replied.

"What are you _doing_ here?" he finally managed to get out.

She looked around.

"I wanted to see where you had made your new life," she replied with another sneer. "Such open space. Such _freedom!"_ she emphasised.

He continued to stare at her, taking her in from head to foot, lost for words, his mind whirling.

"What do you want?" he said, finally recovering; his voice now low with menace.

"Why should I want anything from you? I have had quite enough."

"You always wanted something," he replied, tersely.

"Back then, perhaps," she replied, as she sauntered closer. "Your time; your attention. You were so caught up in that job of yours, you did rather neglect me," she added, coldly.

"What do you want _now,_ Anne?" he asked patiently, catching the scent of her familiar perfume. After all these years she still wore it.

The last thing he wanted was to get into a discussion of their past.

"As I said, I wanted to see what you had made of your new life. So very different from academia."

"I left that life behind," he replied, coldly. "I became a soldier."

"Following the family tradition," she replied, haughtily. "Very noble."

He did not respond, and they stared at each other.

"I have met Nkosi, by the way," she said, lightly; breaking the spell. "She's looking for you. Very pretty."

Athos paled. His eyes fell on the knife in her belt and the rifle on her shoulder, held easily.

"What have you done!?" he whispered. Despite the heat, he was suddenly very cold.

"I've done nothing," she replied. "Merely answered her questions."

"You are a liar," he replied, his voice rising; beyond his control. "How can I believe you?!"

She sighed, dramatically, before walking slowly behind him, making him turn once more to face her.

"Why would I expect you to believe me. You have history on that score," she said.

"That brother of hers, _Rach is it?_ is here too," she added. "He found some natives who told him some of their people had gone looking for a crashed plane. He went in that direction, and found it. Not long after, Nkosi and I found it. Your dog was with him," she finished, waving her hand at Musket, who was sitting passively, watching their exchange.

Athos was frowning now as she reeled off those achingly familiar names and she was rather enjoying his confusion.

"We radioed your two friends and joined up and they're heading this way too."

"So it's a group rescue," he murmured, a smile playing on his lips for the first time at the mention of his friends.

"Seems like it," she replied. "You are very popular."

"We have to keep d'Artagnan safe," he said, warily watching her. "Or everything is lost."

He took a step back as she placed a languid hand on the butt of a gun, tucked into her belt.

"You'd better go if you want to save your little veterinary friend then," she said then. "Koslov is close."

"You know Koslov?" he demanded.

"Well, I wouldn't say _know_ ," she replied, airily. "He moves in very different circles."

Athos looked warily around.

"Will you tell him you found me?"

"I may have to if I see him," she replied. "He is responsible for my freedom. He requires a price for it."

"What price?" he asked, flatly.

"Your friend's expertise, apparently. Don't worry. He wants him alive. You, apparently, not so. You are expendable."

Athos schooled his features. This was his greatest fear. That the work d'Artagnan did to sink the original surveillance report would come to light. If it did, they were all culpable. They all knew Krupin knew something had happened to the original report, but not who had done it, or how. Apparently Koslov knew too. He had said as much in the plane, and now here was his wife, confirming it.

Anne was speaking again;

"Koslov is skilled in interrogation and your man is not a soldier. He will not last long in his "care."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" she asked innocently.

"Telling me this?!" he yelled, finally losing his composure.

She sighed, pulling a gun from her belt.

Musket, suddenly alert, jumped to his feet.

Athos locked eyes with his wife, and took a step back.

 **To be continued ...**


	26. Chapter 26

**CHAPTER TWENTY SIX**

They were caught together in the early morning light; a frozen tableau. Her face registered shock at his move away from her; his, at the sight of a gun in his wife's hand.

She followed his wide-eyed stare. Sudden realisation made her look at the gun and she felt the air leave her lungs.

Instead of shooting him, as he obviously suspected she may do, she held the gun out to him.

Had he honestly thought she would shoot him? She watched as the tension drained from him. Not completely, but enough to reach out and take the offered gun, as he continued to stare at it, still locked in confusion at this turn of events. She spoke again, hurriedly now, and wary of their surroundings as her eyes flicked around the clearing. Musket had stilled once more, eyes on his master; noting the more relaxed stance.

"You should know. Koslov is not alone. There are two of them. So it's up to you. Join d'Artagnan and fight them together, or stay away and draw The Arab off.

"The Arab?"

"Believe me. You won't want to meet him. Koslov used me and this is not a fair fight. Believe it or not, I do not like injustice."

"That's the most hypocritical thing I have ever heard you say," he snarled.

"Damn you, Athos," she hissed, her anger rising. "You never believe me!"

"How can I?" he asked in exasperation. "What is your motive here?"

"Koslov murdered Michelin, my barrister," she said, suddenly spent. "I want him to pay for that."

Athos watched the emotions playing across her face as she warred with herself to remain aloof. He could not deny she looked momentarily bereft. In the six years of their acquaintance, the woman must have come to mean something to her; the manner of her passing fertile grounds for vengeance.

"I'll add it to my list," Athos replied, tucking the gun into the back of his waistband and taking the two rounds of ammunition she pulled from her jacket. "God knows, I am used to picking up your pieces," he added, before he could stop himself. Her appearance had unnerved him and he was himself, warring with his own emotions.

"Just remember, Athos," she said, cold as ice under the hot African sun. "The Arab and Koslov are out there; as are your friends. They will meet. Whether you are there or not, I don't care. We are done. Go back to your African dream." She turned and walked away from him, leaving him standing there, wondering who to believe and which way to go.

"How did Koslov know about you?" Athos called out.

She stopped and slowly turned, her face a mask now.

"I'm curious," he said, softly.

"He didn't know me," she replied. "But he may have known about Thomas," she replied. "Or, at least, Thomas knew some Russians. I heard him taking on the phone a few times."

"He spoke several languages," Athos acknowledged, covering his shock and wondering, not for the first time, if he had ever really known his brother.

"Why do did you fall in with Koslov?" Athos now asked her.

"He got me out," she replied simply. "And ..."

He waited ...

"He promised me diamonds," she shrugged.

"Of course he did," Athos sighed.

"Think of me what you like, Athos, but you don't have long. I gave Koslov two locations. False information. He is probably heading away from you. But not for long."

"I need to go back," Athos said, almost apologetically.

"As you wish," she said, gripping the strap of the rifle, held tightly on her shoulder. "That leaves Naaji."

She turned and ran.

He shouted after;

" _Anne!"_

Of course, she ignored him, and he let her go; torn and sick at heart.

"Damn you, woman," he murmured, as he raked his hands through his hair and tried to settle his thoughts.

He now had a gun, given to him by the most unlikely person. He half-heartedly wondered if he should check that the rounds she had given him were live, but then berated himself for the thought. He wanted to believe she had stalled Koslov, but time would tell. And, it seemed, he had precious little of that commodity left.

Still reeling, Athos headed back toward d'Artagnan.

He could not waste time hunting for Koslov while The Arab was around. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with, but if what Anne had said was true, she had split them up. It was a wise move, diverting their attention between their two groups may just work in their favour. He had no idea what would happen and he was desperately worried about Nkosi and shocked that Rach was with her now too, given his history. But he had to work with the information he now had; Aramis and Porthos were in the Delta and he could afford to divert to his original plan.

He would team up with d'Artagnan. They had done that before, when the Garrison was under siege and d'Artagnan had acquitted himself extremely well. But he was not a soldier and he held the key to Heshima's survival or destruction at these men's hands. He had to survive and Athos knew he was his best chance.

He waited until Anne was well out of sight before sending Musket off after her.

"Be careful," he murmured, not knowing if he intended the sentiment for his dog, or his wife.

He made it back to where he had left d'Artagnan and after a brief stop to survey the ground, he discovered that d'Artagnan had replicated the cairn he had himself made in the desert, an arrow scratched on the topmost rock, pointing in the direction Athos had told him they would be going.

"Not bad, for a vet," he whispered, a smile pulling at his lips.

Now, he felt stronger. His reconnaissance foray had paid off, in the end, despite it being somewhat surreal.

He only hoped that this day would go their way, for all their sakes.

oOo

 **Earlier:**

When d'Artagnan had woken from his brief sleep, Athos was gone.

At first, he thought he had gone for water, but when he did not return, then their conversations ran through his mind and he realised that Athos had, in all probability, gone to draw Koslov away.

"We will make for the tree house," Athos had said when they first arrived back in the Delta, and he had; walking slowly and quietly, he had found a safe place to spend the night; climbing to the top of an acacia tree, and digging in between the thick branches and wondering where Athos would be bedding down. At least he had the bows and the sheath of arrows, but Athos had nothing. Dawn had not come quick enough.

Finally, mid-morning, the tree house came into view.

He flipped the combination lock and freed the gate of the metal fence that encircled the trunk, before climbing the steps that Porthos had constructed earlier that year, when Athos had been unable to use the original rope ladder because of his injury.

He flipped the lever from underneath that released the hatch and pushed it open, letting it come to a vertical rest against the body of the tree house, before climbing up.

Dropping his bag, the bows and the arrows on the walkway, he sank down, with his back to the wooden logs that made up the walls of Athos's sanctuary and stared out over the vista of the lagoons. The sun was high now, reflecting of the blue water. Herds had gathered to drink and all seemed well. It really was beautiful up here, after the arid desert they had crossed. He wished he could appreciate it fully, but now, he did not know what to do.

Drawing his knees up to his chest, he pushed his hair from his face with both hands and sighed.

He trusted Athos implicitly but what if Athos didn't make it?

They knew Koslov had been picked up by someone after the plane went down; would they go to the Garrison? Or had they been watching them from the beginning, keeping one step ahead. He had certainly felt as though they were being watched over the last few days.

But Athos had decided their final destination and he was here now, so he decided to stay where he was, rather than wander around the Delta with a bow and some poisoned arrows. He settled on the walkway, sitting cross legged now, his back to the wall, his eyes continuing to scan the land below, looking for movement; friend or foe. His hand gripped the bow at his side. Now, he was glad to have poisoned arrows.

He only hoped his aim would be true when the time came.

 **To be continued ...**


	27. Chapter 27

**CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN**

Porthos had radioed the Garrison and brought Treville up to speed. He had told him they had encountered Koslov and Naaji and had found the plane. That Athos and d'Artagnan were alive, as far as they knew. That they had reached the Delta. He confirmed that Nkosi was fine. He did not tell him that Anne was currently absent, whereabouts unknown.

Aramis had shrugged as he watched Porthos bypass that nugget of information.

Porthos had argued ferociously, discouraging Treville from calling in help. He and Aramis wanted to keep it as low-key as possible, for obvious reasons. If anyone found out what they were about, all would be lost before they had a chance to rid themselves of Koslov. If they needed help, Porthos said he would contact him straight away.

Treville told him he had received a letter from his contact in Interpol, addressed to Anne. He asked if Porthos could put Anne on so he could ask her if she wanted him to open it and relay the information contained therein to her, as it may be relevant.

Porthos had bitten his lip hard at that. If Treville knew Anne had gone awol, he would definitely call in reinforcements, so he made up an excuse that she was indisposed and they needed to get on their way. There was a long pause at that but, in the end, Treville let him go. Not before giving him a deadline by which he wanted further contact, or he would withdraw his support and definitely call in help.

"He's not 'appy," Porthos had said when he replaced the radio receiver.

"Understandable," Aramis had replied. "Do you think it was wise not to tell him Anne has disappeared?"

"Probably not," Porthos had growled. "But right now we've got more important things to do than worry about that one."

It was time for them to split up into two groups; better to lead two gunmen astray. Hopefully.

They did not know of course that Anne had already sprung that particular trap.

oOo

Athos's encounter with Anne had persuaded him to return. d'Artagnan was a fighter, but he was no match for Koslov. At last, the familiar small lagoon came in sight and with it, the tree house, perched solidly in the thick branches of the large mopane tree. Under the thick canopy of leaves, it merged well, covered in creepers of bright orange flowers. He felt a sudden stab of happiness to see it again, but the feeling was short-lived and he focussed once more.

He crouched, carefully executing a three hundred and sixty degree turn, eyes scanning the landscape. Sudden movement across the lagoon made him spin, only to see an adult bull elephant with his small family entourage, slowly crashing through the undergrowth. The lagoon separated them, and he watched for a few moments as they made their way into the water.

Turning back and keeping in a low crouch, he covered the distance to the treehouse, hoping that d'Artagnan was there, but not wanting to call out.

He let himself into the cage that surrounded the tree trunk and climbed up on the steps. He then whistled two short blows and one long; their signal, tested after their battle last year.

After a few moments, footsteps crossed the walkway above. The hatch cautiously opened and Athos climbed up, his muscles aching from lack of use.

"I thought you'd gone," d'Artagnan grunted, hanging on to the residual anger he had felt when he had woken up alone. He dropped the hatch back down and fastening it.

"I had, I am sorry. I had the idea of wanting to draw Koslov away." Athos replied. "I've always had that idea," he murmured.

"So, what happened?" d'Artagnan asked, turning away and dropping down onto the walkway, looking up at him.

"Something … unexpected," Athos replied, still not sure it had actually happened. "I met Anne. She is here."

"Anne?" d'Artagnan replied, frowning up at him.

"My wife."

"Yes, I know who she is," d'Artagnan snapped.

"Well, she is here," Athos sighed, dropping down next to him.

"What? How can she be?"

"It's a long story. Suffice to say, she knows Koslov and also the man he is with, one Abass Naaji. She warned me about Naaji. Apparently, he is quite mad."

"Terrific," d'Artagnan muttered. "Who is he?"

"He's a terrorist, hired by Koslov to assist him; just as Koslov assisted Krupin.

"There's more," he smiled now and bumped shoulders with d'Artagnan. "Porthos and Aramis are in the Delta, with Nkosi and Rach."

d'Artagnan's face lit up.

"But, that's the best news we've had!" he cried.

"The Delta is a big place, it depends where they are," Athos replied, not wishing to dampen his enthusiasm, but needing to be realistic. "They might not get here in time," he added.

Athos leant forward and pulled the gun from his waistband. "She gave me this," he grunted, while pulling out the two boxes of ammunition from his shirt. He told him then how Anne had tried to buy them some time.

"You'll have to explain that to me later," d'Artagnan grimaced. He took up the bows and lay them in front of them on the walkway.

"At least we have some weapons to defend ourselves," he said. "When do you think they will come?" he asked.

"I have no idea," Athos replied. "But please, when the time comes, do as I ask, as you did before."

d'Artagnan held out his hand. "Of course," he said.

Athos took it, and tilted his head toward the living quarters at their back. "Get some rest, I will keep watch," he said.

"Only if you wake me to take over," d'Artagnan replied, eyeing him firmly.

"Deal," Athos replied. "There are some towels in the cupboard."

"Course there are," d'Artagnan laughed.

Athos had ensured basic comfort when he built his home from home, rigging up a fresh water system that drained rainwater from the roof. No doubt the recent rain had given them enough to drink and sluice their faces. There was a narrow bed at one end, behind a screen, which was draped in a mosquito net; a necessary protection with the water of the lagoons in close proximity.

After d'Artagnan had gone inside, Athos stood cautiously and leaned against the railings, half behind a thick vertical post.

He could see for miles across the land, the small lagoon was in front of the tree house but the whole area was covered in mopane trees and vegetation. There was endless cover for anyone on the ground wanting to ambush them. He would have to draw them out; make himself look vulnerable and get them up here to fight at close quarters.

His heart felt heavy; this was his place of safety and it was about to be defiled, for he had no doubt there would be a battle here. He would have to protect d'Artagnan and keep him close. If they took him, everything they had worked for would be over. They would force d'Artagnan to confess the surveillance findings, giving them detailed information of where the diamond field lay. After that, the sky was the limit for Koslov.

He could see no sign of movement, but as Anne said, they were out there.

But Aramis and Porthos were also out there. The battle may involve them, or Koslov may come before Aramis and Porthos made it to the treehouse. Perhaps they were out there now, tracking the two men themselves. He had no way of knowing.

And what of Anne? What was she thinking, running off like that?

Anne had also said Nkosi was out there too, with Rach, of all people.

All he could do was wait.

For whoever came first.

oOo

In the meantime, Anne was making her way toward the location Koslov had given her the previous night. The fact he and Naaji had been so close had unnerved her, but by now, she hoped that at least Koslov would have set off in the direction she had given him.

She had told him their party was splitting up, which was indeed what they had all decided, but she had given Koslov a false direction. In doing so, she hoped to split the two gunmen up also.

If Koslov took her bait, that would leave her in a dangerous position; he would soon realise she had fooled him. She had no doubt she was expendable; a witness to their intentions and would be hunted down. She had wanted to kill Koslov herself, but Athos's decision to turn back and return to d'Artagnan had made her turn back, her attention now on Naaji.

Six years in prison had taught her how to take care of her enemies. After the first six months, those inmates chancing their luck with her left her alone. If prison had taught her anything, it was to look after herself. She would never leave herself vulnerable again.

Finding herself walking through tall grasses, she stopped. Ahead of her, she could hear something above the natural sounds that had accompanied her since she left Athos.

Listening, her heart sank. There were at least four voices.

One very angry.

It seemed, she was outnumbered.

oOo

She stood as still as possible, holding her breath. A furious argument was going on, though she could not make out what it was about. Creeping forward, she parted some of the grasses, and crouched low, caught sight of a man, pacing up and down.

Koslov had almost boasted about having a madman to help him.

The man in front of her was obviously The Arab.

He fitted that description. He was wild-eyed and ranting, but his voice took on a different tone each time he spoke. She was a spectator to a vicious argument the man was having.

But, she soon realised, he was alone.

He was arguing with three other people, but all of them were, apparently, in his head.

She had thought if she met him, she would deal with him. He was just a man, after all.

But she had never seen a man like this.

Koslov was easy, compared to what this man promised. She had sought to separate them and it had wotrked. This man was "alone." But right now she wanted to be nowhere near him. What a fool she was, to think she was a match for this man.

Catching movement to her left, she saw a familiar truck making its way along the track, heading her way.

Nkosi and Rach.

She had to stop them.

 **To be continued …**

 **oOo**


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N:** A quick word of thanks to all those who are reading and reviewing. Always very much appreciated.

oOo

 **CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT**

Anne had to move fast, but at that moment, Naaji saw her and came at her, his face a twisted mast of anger and hate. She pulled the rifle from her shoulder but did not have time to aim. Instead she swung it with all her force, like a club, and caught him on the side of the head.

It gave her enough time to run but she dropped the rifle and she was aware he hadn't gone down; he was stumbling after her.

She ran in front of the approaching truck and it slewed to a halt, inches from her.

Nkosi stared at her through the windscreen but seemed frozen at the sight of her. It was Rach who jumped from the truck. Taking in her appearance and her wild looks behind her, he followed her gaze and saw the fierce, dishevelled man coming toward them, blood running down the side of his face.

"Naaji!" she managed to shout.

Not since she had been caught with a gun in her hand and her dead lover at her feet had she felt panic like it.

Rach ran past her and straight toward him.

"Rach!" Nkosi cried in anguish as she watched her youngest brother racing toward the man who was now raising a gun.

Then, in a blur of white, she saw Musket, who emerged from the grass and leapt at Naaji, knocking him sideways and sending him staggering. The gun exploded and Rach fell heavily to the ground.

Nkosi screamed as she scrambled from the truck. She ran toward her brother, but her run was suddenly halted by sheer panic as Anne reached her. Naaji had regained his footing and had launched himself at Anne, who now had her back to him, shielding Nkosi.

Anne fumbled for the blade in her belt, but it gave Naaji just enough time to reach her and he grabbed her hair, dragging her back, her blade still in place.

She fought like a wildcat, twisting and hissing to rid herself of him, aware of Nkosi now screaming on his back, galvanised into action by unbridled anger; trying to pull him off, her fingers digging into his eyes. Musket was barking and baring his teeth, snapping at Naaji's legs and landing a few bites. Rach was still on the ground, dazed and bleeding from a wound on his upper arm; Musket's attention caught between the furious battle and young man he had spent the last week with.

It was a maelstrom of growling, grunting, roaring and unholy screaming in English and Swahili as built-up tension and fury was released. Their three bodies were merged in battle amid the sand which flew up beneath their feet, shrouding their clothes in its fine red texture; their skin glistening from the exertion.

Musket heard nothing, driven into action by the energy in the heat of the day and the smell of anger, anxiety and panic before him. Naaji landed a backward kick on Musket's flank and the dog was winded, a long whine adding to the cacophony as he dropped back and sank down; blood from the bites he had inflicted on Naaji wet on his muzzle.

Then Naaji's fingers blindly found the thin blade in Anne's belt and he pulled it free and twisted her, holding it against her throat – and everything changed.

oOo

Anne stopped fighting. In response, Nkosi dropped from Naaji's back as realisation of their defeat became apparent.

Naaji grabbed Anne by the arm and pushed her forward into the side of the truck. Exhausted, she hung onto the half-wound down window for support, pulling warm air into her lungs. Nkosi was on the ground, equally winded.

Naaji told her to retrieve his gun, and she pulled herself up onto her feet, casting a concerned look at her brother, who was holding his arm. Blood oozed from the wound beneath his fingers, but he nodded weakly at her. She found the gun and stood looking down at it before turning to look at Naaji once more. He now held the blade to the base of Anne's skull as she stood with her back to them, arms braced on the door of the truck. Nkosi had no doubt he would slide it happily into her brain if she attempted anything. Defeated, she picked up the gun and walked back, stepping over Musket, who was still lying on his side, panting.

"Good boy, my darling," she whispered, as she held out the gun, loosely hanging from her trembling fingers.

Naaji grabbed it and pushed her back. A smile spread across his face as he swung the gun around and pointed it at Rach.

"No!" Nkosi whispered, tears spilling from her wide, fearful eyes.

His finger pulled back on the trigger and the gun exploded once more as he laughed.

oOo

Naaji pulled Anne aside and threw open the door. He forced her into the passenger seat, the blade now in his boot and the warm barrel of the gun to her head; his other hand tangled roughly in her hair. Wincing and against everything she stood for, she stopped struggling and allowed herself to be manhandled; not daring to inflame the man who held them.

He then turned to Nkosi, who was still staring at Rach.

"You," he shouted, making her jump and turn slowly toward him.

"Get in," he snarled, waving the gun toward the driver's seat.

She wiped her hand across her eyes and walked slowly across, pulling open the door and sliding in.

"Drive," he snarled one more, as he pulled open the rear door and got in, wiping his still-bleeding head roughly on his sleeve.

Resigned, Nkosi shoved the truck into first gear, but he stopped her.

"Reverse," he snapped.

"What?" she whispered, her voice wavering.

"Turn it around," he spat.

He was quiet for a moment as she reversed, leaving Rach and Musket behind, risking a long look at them as they disappeared from view.

"Don't do anything stupid," a different voice came from the rear. "Or he will shoot the white woman. He wants _you_ , honey," the voice added, aimed at Nkosi, and she shuddered.

She did as she was ordered, risking a glance at Anne, who nodded, her face an angry mask.

Naaji pulled out his phone, the gun trained on the two women from the rear of the truck. Anne watched him cautiously through the windscreen mirror.

Anne didn't like the first voice he had used. It was the vicious voice she had heard him use a little while ago when she had first encountered him. The other voices at that time were appeasing and subservient. The vicious voice was the dominant one. She thought it was taking over now and it had sent a cold chill into her bones. This new voice now coming from the rear was collaborative and simpering; supporting and explaining the other's actions.

She had been exposed to such madness in the prison. One woman had torn the flesh from her arms and had tried to gouge out her own eyes, blaming the voices in her head. She had been carried out of the prison screaming, never to be seen again.

Now her attention was on the dominant voice, which had suddenly appeared once more.

"I've got the women," it snarled into the phone.

Anne and Nkosi listened to the disturbing one-sided conversation.

"No."

 _(...)_

"I said no. You get him, he's your concern.

"You said yourself, the old man knows"

 _(...)_

"You think I need surveillance reports to make him talk?"

 _(...)_

"I don't care about that. I don't care about discrediting them and selling to the highest bidder. The old man knows and he will tell me."

 _(...)_

"I haven't seen them. They've split up. That's your concern now. Kill them all for all I care."

He laughed then, an ungodly sound.

"Don't think I don't know you would have killed me when you had what you wanted. We were never partners."

 _(...)_

"You can try, Koslov. I'll be waiting."

He cut the call and slammed the phone onto the seat beside him, muttering to himself.

Nkosi was gripping the wheel so tightly her knuckles were white. Anne looked across and saw she was barely holding herself together. Tears were streaming from her eyes as the impact of Naaji's words sank in, and she realised who the old man Naaji was talking about was.

Anne reached over and rested her hand firmly on Nkosi's.

"I saw Athos," she whispered. "He knows we are all here."

Nkosi's body sagged as she held in a sob. Then, she shifted her hand and squeezed Anne's in return.

Wiping her face quickly with her hand she drew in a deep breath and addressed the man behind her.

"Where are we going?"

What he said confirmed her fears and made her blood run cold.

"The Tswana Village," he replied. "To visit your father."

 **To be continued ...**


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N:** Brace yourselves …

oOo

 **CHAPTER TWENTY NINE**

 **The tree house**

They didn't have long.

The last thing they needed was night to fall, Athos thought, as he looked at the sun, still dominant over the African vista but soon to be running out of its tenure in the blue sky. Once darkness fell, they wouldn't stand a chance.

"What are you thinking about?" d'Artagnan asked a little later as they sat together once more on the walkway, ever vigilant.

Athos did not reply at first, dipping his head and staring at the bracelet on his wrist. He had not taken it off since she presented it to him on Christmas Day. He doubted he ever would, until it wore out. Even then, he would place it somewhere safe; a treasure to remember. It had signified the beginning of new hope for his worn-out heart. Renewal. He had often wondered if Nkosi knew what she had bestowed on him that day. Perhaps, one day, he would tell her.

d'Artagnan waited patiently, watching the emotions flit across his friend's normally guarded features, until felt Athos relax beside him.

"Nkosi," he smiled sadly.

d'Artagnan bumped his shoulder.

"I'm sure she'll come around," he said softly.

Athos tilted his head forward and scrubbed both hands over his face in frustration, before pushing his hair back from his forehead and dropping his hands down.

"I don't know," he sighed, before folding his arms. "She is very … traditional. Honour means everything to her."

d'Artagnan twisted to look at him in disbelief.

"Athos, believe me. You are the most honourable man I know."

Athos side-glanced him shyly.

"Hopefully you can convince her of that," Athos murmured, not sounding convinced himself.

d'Artagnan hauled himself up and dusted himself down.

"It will be my duty and my pleasure," he replied with a smile; giving him a mock salute.

He had barely dropped his arm when the dull thwack of gunfire slammed into the wooden wall behind him.

His eyes widened in shock, before he looked down.

His knees suddenly buckled and he went down hard.

"d'Artagnan!" Athos yelled, sliding next to him; gripping his shoulders and pushing him down further.

They both laid on the walkway on their bellies, a pool of blood spreading out from under d'Artagnan's leg.

"Thigh," he grunted, face down, his fists curled tight on either side of his head.

Staying flat beside him, Athos ran his eyes quickly over d'Artagnan's prone body, seeing blood slowly pumping through his jeans.

"It's a through and through," he grimaced. "Can you move?"

"I don't know," d'Artagnan hissed. "I've been shot."

Before Athos could give a sarcastic reply, another volley of automatic fire hit the tree house and large shards of wood showered over them. The railings were next, as the spray continued. The creepers that covered the railings flailed as they were cut off in the gunfire. Orange flowers showered them as they both lay flat once more, heads pressed into the wooden walkway.

Athos turned his face to the side and focussed on the ground beneath them, hoping to see where the shots were coming from. Another quick burst came, quickly followed by another. Both, it seemed, from the same direction, but Athos could see little else; there was too much ground cover. The natural sounds of the Delta had ceased as the noise of gunfire now enveloped them and they both pushed their heads down into the walkway, side by side.

Pinned down as they were, though, Athos was counting; working out when the brief respite would come as whoever was shooting had to reload.

"There is only one gunman," he yelled, as the last burst came, getting nearer and nearer to their prone position. "We have to move!" he hissed, gripping d'Artagnan by the forearm. The movement had d'Artagnan gritting his teeth and biting back a howl.

"There is only one place," Athos shouted, as he pulled d'Artagnan up. "We have literally seconds!"

"Where?!" d'Artagnan gasped, as his head swam with the sudden elevation.

"The roof!" Athos yelled back at him urgently, before the world swam completely as Athos dragged him to his feet.

Pulling d'Artagnan's arm around his shoulder, he hefted him around the side of the tree house to the thick trunk of the supporting tree at the back of the structure. The roof was low, and d'Artagnan valiantly put his foot in Athos's laced fingers and was boosted up onto the thatch in one swift movement.

"Stay there! Stay quiet!" Athos shouted and disappeared, leaving him lying face down on the roof, fingers curled around the wooden skylight, built for stargazing, but now anchoring his body.

A wave of nausea hit him as pain spiked from the back of his thigh up into his hip. He clung on, thankful for the shallow pitch of the roof and the coverage from the branches above him.

The firing had started again and d'Artagnan buried his face in his arm, as wave after wave of pain washed over him. Athos had a gun and could return fire, but the bows and arrows were below him in the living quarters. Why had he moved them, dammit?! They would be another weapon for Athos when he ran out of bullets, if he knew where they were.

oOo

 **The Garrison**

The deadline Treville had given Porthos was fast approaching. He sat now at the radio and switched on the mike.

Once, twice, three times he called them up, each time more urgently.

His call went unanswered and finally, his patience left him and he snapped the pencil he held in his hand in two. Looking down, he threw it across the room in anger.

The clock on the wall told him Porthos had two more hours, and then Treville would call in help. His finger itched to pick up the phone now, but his word was his word, and so he stood up and strode back to his office, angry and worried in equal measure.

oOo

On the roof, d'Artagnan was listening.

The shooting had commenced again and Athos was returning fire. He could hear him moving below him.

Everything went quiet then, and d'Artagnan realised the gunman was reloading once more. Athos would have been out of ammunition by the end of last volley and d'Artagnan was thinking furiously what he could do, as he pulled himself up further onto the skylight.

Below, Athos was waiting.

He had counted, as before, but nothing had happened. No more shots were fired from below. He had fired his own last shots indiscriminately, spraying the vegetation below and hoping to hit their attacker.

He walked cautiously to the end of the walkway, stepping over the trapdoor, which was now secured once more. He could hear d'Artagnan moving on the roof and was just about to urge him to remain quiet when he heard a noise behind him.

Turning, he came face to face with Koslov.

He had climbed the tree and dropped over the railing onto the walkway.

Athos looked him over. He was dishevelled but unhurt, and his heart sank.

"Your luck has run out, Athos," Koslov said quietly, as he pulled the gun from his belt and aimed it his way. His eyes flicked to the door of the living quarters, before he turned his gaze back to Athos.

"Where is he?" he said, his voice low.

Athos was not sure if Koslov knew d'Artagnan had been on the walkway with him, hidden as it was behind the mass of creepers that spread across the railings. But he knew that that was too much to hope for. Their luck had finally run out.

"Not here," he therefore murmured.

Koslov though, looked at the blood on the walkway and laughed.

"Nice try," he snarled, looking him over. "Not your blood, I take it. I do hope I have not killed your friend. That was certainly not my intention. However, as he is not here," he said, tapping the wooden walkway next to the bloodstain with his boot, "I take it he is mobile?"

Athos did not respond.

Koslov withdrew his phone and waved it at him; a cold smile on his face.

"Naaji called. I'm sure you know about him from that bitch of a wife of yours."

Athos remained mute, but what Koslov said next made his blood run cold.

"He has your women," Koslov said then. "Both of them."

Athos took a careful step back, his heel hitting the catch of the trapdoor, though it remained closed.

"Once I have finished here," Koslov continued, "I will take your friend and join him, and I will have some fun. I have some scores to settle."

Athos took a small step to the side, his eyes fixed on Koslov; cold seeping into his veins.

The Russian raised his gun.

Athos prepared himself, before sending out a silent prayer that Porthos and Aramis would come before Koslov could spirit d'Artagnan away, when a sudden almighty crash and a dull scream drew their attention to the living quarters.

Koslov's eyes flew to the door and he started forward.

Athos knew he had seconds to act. He stepped back and yelled at Koslov, drawing his attention. He watched as Koslov swung around to face him. The air was filled with the roar of Koslov's gun and Athos found himself flung backwards by a sudden dull force. He landed heavily on his back next to the railings, as Koslov marched on toward the door, leaning over to fling it open.

Athos rolled onto the right side, just in time to see inside the room. d'Artagnan was sitting with his knees drawn up and the loaded bow laid horizontally across them. An animal sound came from him as he let the arrow fly.

It hit Koslov in the chest and stopped him in his tracks. He staggered back, the gun still in his hand. Now, though, he was where Athos had wanted him. Where he had hoped to manoeuvrer him. Onto the trapdoor, which was hanging by its catch, half turned earlier by Athos's heel.

Koslov's full weight was on the trapdoor and Athos held his breath, his eyes on the gun, still firmly held in the man's flailing hand. Two seconds seemed like a lifetime, before there was the sound of a crack, and the trapdoor gave way.

Koslov dropped from view like a stone.

Athos exhaled a shuddering breath and closed his eyes.

It had worked, he had got it right. The catch had barely held the trapdoor in place and Koslov's weight had done the rest. However, it was not a long drop and Athos braced himself to be riddled from a volley of bullets from beneath him as he lay on the walkway.

But all was eerily silent.

The adrenaline of the last few minutes was still surging through his veins as he laid his hand on his stomach and felt blood seeping into his shirt. He turned his head clumsily to the right and looked through the doorway as a strange feeling of heaviness began to envelop him. Inside, d'Artagnan had dropped the bow and had fallen over onto his side.

Silently, they locked eyes.

They stared at each other as the door started to slowly close on its uneven wooden frame, taking d'Artagnan from his sight. As the door quietly clicked into place, the noise of the Delta started to seep back to Athos and he rolled onto his back. Now, the pain came and it took his breath away, though he managed to whisper two words; "I'm sorry."

With his left hand he grasped one of the railings as he attempted to pull himself up but his vision started to darken, until all that was left was the sound of the Delta, quickly diminishing as he fell further into oblivion.

As his hearing faded, he thought he could hear Porthos's voice. Wishful thinking, he thought, faintly.

He hoped the girls would be alright. He hoped Nkosi would forgive him.

He turned his head to the left to look through the railings, but the view below was now dim and blurred.

He watched as his hand slowly fell from its grasp, his arm coming to rest hanging through the railings, above the ground.

The last thing he saw was his bracelet.

For that, he was glad.

 **To be continued ...**


	30. Chapter 30

A longer chapter today, because you're worth it.

oOo

 **CHAPTER THIRTY**

At last, the tree house came into view.

Slowing the truck, Aramis came to a halt. They had come almost as far as they could in the vehicle and would cover the rest of the distance on foot. Porthos took hold of the radio mike and called Nkosi, as Aramis scanned their surroundings.

The radio crackled, but no response came.

"Probably scoutin' on foot. I'll try later," Porthos said quietly, as he slid from the passenger seat and opened the back door. Pulling the rifle out, he grabbed two of the other bags. One held ammunition and the other was Aramis's medical kit, which they always took when on foot.

Aramis slid out of the driver's seat, checking and priming his gun.

"It's quiet," he said, as they left the vehicle and started walking toward the tree house.

"I don't like it," Porthos grunted, his eyes flicking around, handing Aramis his bag as they walked cautiously on.

As they got closer, Aramis suddenly threw out his arm and stopped Porthos.

"What?" Porthos whispered, turning to look at him.

Aramis's face was frozen in horror, making Porthos follow his gaze.

Ahead, impaled on the pointed metal railings that surrounded the trunk of the tree that housed the tree house, was what looked like the body of a man.

Porthos flinched as the body twitched horribly and a terrible gurgle came from the throat, heard even this distance away. The arms flailed briefly and then dropped to his sides.

"My God," Aramis whispered, crossing himself hurriedly, as they watched the man in his final throes of life.

At this distance, they could not tell who it was, but Aramis started forward, only to be grabbed by Porthos who wrapped his hand around his forearm and held him fast.

"Wait," Porthos growled.

Aramis started to shake him off, but then his eyes strayed up to scan the tree house walkway.

"It's not Athos," Porthos was saying quietly, still staring at the impaled man. "It's Koslov."

He looked around carefully.

"So where's The Arab?"

Aramis though, had stilled. Suddenly, he pulled his arm free, having caught sight of a limp hand hanging through the railings above them. His breath left his lungs as he recognised the familiar bracelet.

"We'd better get up there, Porthos," he said quietly. "That's Athos."

With that, Aramis took off.

Porthos raced after him, rifle clasped tightly in his hand, his own eyes now focussed on that limp hand.

Ahead, Aramis slowed briefly to look at the body. It was a terrible sight, but what had caught his attention was the colour of the man's lips, just visible as his head hung low, and a blackness that was creeping along his jawline. Then, he saw the thin arrow, protruding from his back and it made sense. There was nothing he could do, and even if he could, he had other people on his mind, and so he pulled out his gun, destroying the lock on the gate with a single blast and dragging it open. He began to swiftly climb up the steps set into the trunk of the tree; mentally thanking Porthos for making a sturdy staircase, after Athos's accident had rendered the original rope ladder unusable to him.

The trap door that was built into the walkway above him was hanging down. Aramis pushed it up and rammed it against the wall of the tree house, before letting himself up. His eyes took in Athos, lying still and bloodied in front of him on the wooden floor of the walkway and for a moment, he froze at the sight of the blood soaking into his shirt and the still hand that hung between the railings.

Close behind, Porthos cast Koslov's body a cursory glance and frowned; also noting the arrow that pierced his body, before allowing himself a small grunt of satisfaction.

"Dead as a dead thing," he muttered to himself as he pushed through the gate and hit the steps running, making his way up, one hand steadying himself on the rough bark of the mopane tree.

Aramis was now on the walkway, carefully looking around. d'Artagnan was nowhere to be seen, but Porthos was now coming through the trap door behind him. He quickly tried the door to the living area, but it was locked.

Deciding they were safe from further gunfire, at least for the moment, Aramis dropped to his knees. Porthos joined him, dropping down with a grunt that sounded more like a heartfelt groan. They both knelt next to Athos and rolled him onto his side.

"No exit wound," Aramis ground out.

Porthos threaded his fingers through his friend's hair, his lips pressed in a thin line but staying quiet, allowing Aramis to do his job.

"Athos?" Aramis hummed, gently tapping his face.

"Athos, open your eyes for me," he said, with a little more force.

There was no response and Porthos fought an irrational urge to pull his friend into his arms. He hadn't seen Athos for a week; worried sick most of that time. It was the longest they had been apart for some time and Porthos's welcomes always involved a firm hug, with a slap on the back for good measure. Now, he felt utterly powerless.

" _Aramis?_ " Porthos ventured, his trembling hand still tangled in Athos's unruly hair.

Aramis gave him a quick glance but there was no reassurance in it. Porthos almost pushed him aside and grabbed Athos when, just then, Athos's eyelids fluttered and, with a low groan, his eyes finally opened.

"There you are," Aramis said quietly, as Porthos sat back on his haunches and took a deep breath.

Unfocussed, ignoring Aramis, Athos turned his head and stared above him.

"Athos, it's alright, we have you, lie still," Aramis started to work, pulling away his saturated shirt.

Athos continued to stare up at the underneath of the thatch.

"Athos, where's d'Artagnan?" Aramis said, as he worked.

Porthos followed his gaze.

"Up there?" he asked, standing; confident that Aramis had this.

Porthos walked along the walkway to where a thick vertical timber rose up from the walkway up into the thatch. Now, with something positive to do, he climbed carefully up onto the railing. Taking hold of the beam to steady himself, he cautiously looked over the edge and up on to the sloping thatch of the roof.

What he saw was the open skylight, half way up.

"What the ...?" he grunted to himself.

"What is it?" Aramis shouted, not taking his eyes from Athos.

"Skylight's open," Porthos grunted.

Looking back, he saw Athos had raised his hand to the door next to the released trap door.

Aramis looked over his shoulder.

"Athos says look inside," he called to Porthos.

"Does he?" Porthos said, easing himself down off the railings and jumping back down onto the walkway.

"Couldn't he 'ave said that in the first place," he grunted.

Porthos reached the door and turned the handle, but it still did not give.

"Well, our young friend probably started off on the roof and ended up in the lounge," Aramis muttered as he pulled what he needed from his pack.

" _Lounge_?" Porthos growled. "Is that what you call it?"

"Of course," Aramis said, attention still fully on Athos, but glad of the banter now.

"Athos built it. It is not ordinary," he replied. "What would you call it?"

"Us lesser mortals would call it a sittin' room," Porthos replied as he put his shoulder to the door, and with a grunt, shoved firmly, being careful of the gaping hole in the walkway behind him.

The catch on the inside of the door shifted and the door swung open.

Porthos's frame filled the doorway as he peered inside. There, under the opened skylight, was d'Artagnan - flat on his back and dead to the world in the middle of the floor; with what looked like a primitive bow clasped in his hand.

"That would explain it," he muttered, before quickly moving toward d'Artagnan.

"You got another patient," he shouted as he knelt before the prone figure, pushing his long hair back from his face, tucking it gently behind his ear.

Aramis didn't look up, "What have we got?" he called.

"Another gunshot wound," Porthos said. "It's gone straight through 'is leg."

"Alright, I'll be with him soon," Aramis replied, tightly. "Find something to tie around it for now. I'm not finished here."

Porthos cast around; his eyes dropping on the sheet on the bed in the corner. Shifting the mosquito net aside his pulled the sheet off the bed and tore a strip from it. Returning to d'Artagnan, he knelt and wrapped it tightly around the young man's leg.

On the walkway, Athos had drifted off again, as Aramis delved into his medical kit once more and pulled out what he needed. He worked automatically. Koslov was dead, but behind him in the woodland somewhere, was Naaji, Nkosi, Anne and Rach. However, he could not think of that now.

He tore the packaging off a bandage and folded it into a thick square, placing it down on the hole in Athos's side.

"When you have done that, find me something to help stop this bleeding, if you can," Aramis shouted at Porthos.

He heard Porthos moving around and then he appeared in the doorway a few moments later, with two of Athos's towels under his arm, and the bow in his hand.

"Did you see Koslov had an arrow through 'im? d'Artagnan's 'ad himself some target practice," he said, as he crossed the threshold.

"Be careful. I believe those arrows are poisonous," Aramis muttered as he worked. "And here was I thinking they were defenceless."

Porthos left the door open after a last look at d'Artagnan on the floor before moving into place beside Aramis, dropping the towels on the walkway next to him.

Behind him, the door slowly started to close, before it bumped into the door frame.

After a few minutes, Aramis dropped a folded towel on top of the bandage.

"Hold this, Porthos. Press hard,"he said as he relinquished care.

Leaving Porthos, Aramis picked up his kit and moved quickly into the living area of the tree house. Looking up, he saw that d'Artagnan had obviously dropped down, or had fallen through the skylight that Athos had built into the roof of the tree house.

There was a pool of blood under his right thigh, and he quickly undid the temporary bandage that Porthos had tied around his leg.

"Damn it, d'Artagnan, the fall would have been enough," he muttered to himself as he got to work.

In d'Artagnan's case, the bullet had gone straight through his thigh; the exit wound was a mess on the back of his leg. He pulled a length of tubing out of his kit and tied it tightly above the wound to slow the blood loss and then sliced his jeans to fully expose the wound.

To his surprise, d'Artagnan opened his eyes.

"Not a fall ..." he muttered. "… controlled leap."

Then his eyes closed and he was unresponsive once more.

"Controlled leap of _faith_ , I think," Aramis huffed, fondly.

He cleaned the wound as best he could with antiseptic wipes before injecting an antibiotic into his arm and stuffing gauze tightly into the wound, front and back. He dipped into his kit once more and pulled out another roll of sterile bandage and began to tie it firmly around his leg.

Next, he gently rolled d'Artagnan onto his back and lifted his leg, placing a cushion under his ankle to elevate his leg and sat back. Seeing the slogan on the cushion, he smiled. It was one he had brought back for Athos after a trip he had made, which he thought would make his friend smile;

" _What's so Amazing that_

 _Keeps us Stargazing_?"

Athos had indeed smiled and given it pride of place on the seating beneath the skylight.

The whole process of treating d'Artagnan had taken ten minutes but now he was back on his feet and moving back to Athos. The only thing he could do for him was try and stop the bleeding and Porthos was in charge of that, still pressing firmly down and whispering quiet words of comfort to his still friend.

Porthos shifted aside as Aramis retook his place on his knees beside him.

"I can't get the bullet out here," he said, looking at Porthos. "We need sterile conditions. We have to get them both back to Garrison."

When Aramis looked back down, Athos was staring at him.

"Hello," Aramis said, infinitely gently. "You have had quite an adventure, my friend."

"It's alright, Athos, we're all here," Porthos said. "We've been lookin' for you. Nkosi and Rach are in the Delta. They'll be here soon. Koslov's dead. It's alright."

At the mention of Nkosi's name, Athos reached out toward Porthos.

"Porthos," Athos said weakly. "Nkosi and Anne. Koslov said ..."

"Said what?" Porthos said, sharing a look with Aramis.

Athos caught the look and became agitated.

"Nkosi. And Anne. Anne warned me."

Porthos grabbed his hand and held on.

So, Anne had reappeared, Porthos thought.

"S'alright. I've spent some time with your wife lately. She tells a colourful tale, but she explained a few things. I'll tell you later."

Athos shook his head. Porthos wasn't understanding him. He wanted to tell them what Koslov said, but he couldn't remember what it was. Everything felt strange.

Porthos took hold of his flailing hand. "It's ok," he said. "Nkosi's with Rach."

" _Anne_ ," Athos managed. There was something he needed to tell Porthos, but Porthos wasn't listening.

"We're takin' you and d'Artagnan home now," he was saying, looking at Aramis. "This nice man's gonna work his magic on you again, and the least you can do is make him look like he knows what he's doin'."

He took Athos's face in his hands and leaned closer, suddenly looking fearful.

"You hear me, Ath?"

"Hear you," Athos whispered.

 _Naaji has them._

They didn't react and he realised he hadn't said it out loud.

 _Naaji has ..._

"It's still bleeding," Aramis said, cutting across his thoughts, before pressing down once more.

A wave of agony hit him and he forgot everything, as everything went black.

Seeing him go limp, Porthos looked sharply at Aramis, who quickly put his fingers to the side of his neck, before nodding.

"It's better this way," Aramis said. "We have to get them down this tree and into the truck," he said.

oOo

Aramis stayed on the walkway. He gave Porthos his truck keys and Porthos ran to bring the vehicle as close as he could to the tree house. He carried the bow and sheath of arrows with him, thinking he would quiz d'Artagnan about it later. There was a narrow trail, which he bumped the vehicle on to, bringing it a little closer to the tree. It wasn't ideal. They would just have to carry them across the short distance as carefully as they could.

Climbing back up the tree, Porthos hardly spared Koslov's body him a glance. It would have to stay there until they had time to do something about it, though he doubted there would be much left after a night out here. The thought didn't sit well with him, but Koslov had chosen his path and his death was a consequence of it, however brutal.

They carried d'Artagnan down the steps first and got him into the back seat of the truck and went back for Athos.

Athos was loaded into the passenger seat.

Aramis made final checks on them, before climbing behind the wheel.

Porthos was about to get into the back next to d'Artagnan when sudden movement through the grass behind him had him whirling around.

Musket suddenly appeared, and Porthos spread his arms in surprise. Seeing Porthos, the dog threw himself at him, nearly knocking him over.

"Easy, boy," Porthos said, rubbing his ears. "Look who we've got," he added, tapping the truck door and letting Musket see Athos.

The dog started to whine, his two front paws braced on the door of the truck.

"I'll put 'im in the back with me," Porthos said to Aramis, opening the back door.

But Musket would not go. He backed away, barking.

Turning, he ran off, only to come back again, barking harder. It was then that Porthos saw the dark stains around his muzzle.

Aramis was firing up the engine now, his two unconscious passengers his main concern.

"Porthos! Get in!" he shouted, as the engine roared into life.

But Porthos turned and looked at him.

"I can't," he said softly.

"What are you talking about?!" Aramis said in exasperation.

Porthos turned back to look at Musket, who was still running off and coming back, barking.

"Somethin's not right," he growled, realisation setting in. "Athos was tryin' to tell us."

"What are you going to do?" Aramis asked, staring at Porthos through the side window.

"I gotta go with Musket," Porthos replied.

 **To be continued …**

oOo

 **A/N:** The slogan on the cushion is from "Rainbow Connection," for those who are interested. Love that song, lol.


	31. Chapter 31

**CHAPTER THIRTY ONE**

 _"I gotta go with Musket," Porthos replied ..._

Aramis gripped the wheel.

"You don't know what you're getting into, Porthos!" he shouted through the half-open window of the truck.

Porthos came toward him, resting his hands on the glass. Aramis wound it down further and leaned carefully over Athos.

"You heard Athos," Porthos replied.

"No, not really," Aramis said. His attention had been on other things.

"Just … trust me, yeah?" Porthos said.

He wanted nothing more than to climb onboard next to d'Artagnan and race back to the Garrison. But he couldn't get Athos's muddled words out of his head; one word in particular -

" _Anne."_

She was trouble, but Athos said he had seen her; talked to her. Wherever in his mind Athos had cast his ex-wife, she was now at the forefront and something was deeply bothering him, despite being shot. If he had said "Nkosi," Porthos would have put it down to pure emotion, but " _Anne_?" That got Porthos's attention; as Athos probably knew it would.

Naaji, Anne, Nkosi and Rach were out there, and he had one very agitated dog he could not ignore.

Aramis was scrambling around in the cab of the truck. He grabbed a small first aid kit and thrust it into the bag that carried ammunition and water, not daring to give him more of his medical supplies with his two gravely injured passengers to monitor. Passing the bag through the window, Porthos took it and hoisted it onto his shoulder and nodded. The bow hung on his other shoulder along with his rifle. Somewhere, Aramis knew Porthos also had a pistol secreted on his person.

"At least you are well armed," he said. "Take care, Porthos."

"You know I will, brother," Porthos said, giving Aramis a grim smile.

Behind him, Musket was whining and nipping at his ankles.

"Gotta go, before he does some damage," Porthos huffed and with a last look at his unconscious friends, he reached through the open window. Aramis grabbed his hand briefly, and then their hold was broken, as Porthos turned and ran.

oOo

Aramis reversed the truck carefully back onto the trail.

Once he was underway, he grabbed the radio mike and called the Garrison.

It was answered almost immediately, as Treville almost shouted his acknowledgement.

"Incoming wounded, Captain. Athos and d'Artagnan. Both with gunshot wounds. I'll need medical assistance."

"On it," Treville said, intending to bring in help from Gaborone Hospital. "Aramis?" he said.

"I don't know right now," Aramis replied, anticipating Treville's question.

"The others?" Treville asked then. He was aware they had reached the Delta separately.

"It's a mess. Koslov's dead, but Naaji is still at large. Porthos is staying behind. Something isn't right."

He didn't mention Nkosi, Anne or Rach, not wanting to be drawn into speculation, or worrying Treville further.

"Alright," Treville replied. "I won't waste time asking questions."

"Please," Aramis said, "Stay by the radio. Let me know what the hospital says. My eta is thirty minutes."

They broke contact and Aramis was on his own. It would not be long before nightfall and the adrenaline that had flooded his veins earlier was returning.

The journey was horrendous.

He had to stop twice; once jumping out and securing d'Artagnan, who had twisted in the back seat. He pulled him upright and leant his back against the door, while pulling his damaged leg back onto the seat. After rigging the seatbelt and fastening it over his leg, ensuring that it would not move, he moved to the passenger seat to check on Athos. He was pale and still, blood seeping through the temporary bandage. Aramis secured it as best he could and spent the rest of the journey driving with one hand; the other pressed to Athos's side.

The late afternoon heat was oppressive, his back wringing wet. He wanted nothing more than to put his foot down hard, but could not. He kept looking at the radio, willing Treville to come back; desperately needing to know that medical help would come, but knowing that driving the distance back was the right thing to do. Twenty minutes had already gone by, and there had been no response from Gaborone hospital. In another ten minutes, he would be back at his facility. He had gained his friends some time, but did not want to do the surgery by himself. Athos took priority because of the severity of his wound, but that left d'Artagnan, who was equally in need of treatment and could not be left for long.

Just when he had worked himself up into fearing the worst, the radio burst into life and he threw his hand out and grabbed the mike.

"Here!" he shouted, his eyes glued to the horizon, looking for the first signs of home.

"They are sending a team out now by air," Treville was saying, his voice strained. "They should not be too far behind you."

"Thank God," Aramis replied, feeling his chest relax; able now to take a proper breath. "Any idea who?"

There was a short pause before Treville spoke again;

"Dr Peter Weiss and two colleagues," Treville said. "Do you know him?"

"Peter? Yes! I know him. "He's good," Aramis replied. "It's all good, Captain." he said, before signing off and hanging the mike back.

"It's all good, brothers," he whispered.

Casting a look at Athos, unconscious beside him, he truly hoped it was.

oOo

Hot and aching, and beginning to wonder if he had made the right decision in following Musket, Porthos slowed. Ahead of him, partially hidden in a thicket of trees, was a truck.

He had seen it before. Approaching slowly, he looked inside. Untidy, but empty. The door was locked. Walking slowly around it, he saw that the wing was damaged; a long gouge running from behind the headlight toward the passenger door.

This was Koslov's truck.

They had faced this truck in the desert, before Koslov had unexpectedly backed off. Not before Aramis had fired, though, hitting the wing.

Musket suddenly came back, barking once more. The dog would refuse to get into this vehicle in the state he was in and, doubting he could follow the animal in the truck, he decided to press on on foot, letting Musket lead the way. If their search came to nought, he could retrace his steps and take the truck.

"We'd better be nearly there, boy," Porthos grunted, as he took off once more.

Just ten minutes later, Musket finally stopped.

Sitting perfectly still, with his back to Porthos, Musket was staring ahead. Porthos caught up with him and followed his gaze.

Ahead, slumped against a rock, was Rach.

oOo

"Bloody 'ell," Porthos breathed. Looking down at Musket, he leaned down and touched him on the ear and the dog instantly took off, bounding through the grass.

Porthos followed. Crouching carefully down in front of Rach. Seeing blood on his arm, he reached over, touching his shoulder.

Rach suddenly lurched upright and yelled in his native toungue, and Porthos fell back on his backside.

Rach looked blearily from Porthos to Musket before breaking into a weary grin.

"Moosket, my friend. You saved me," he laughed weakly, as the dog clambered over him; overjoyed to be reunited with him.

Porthos took hold of his bag and pulled out the first aid kit, before settling next to Rach and lifting his arm, inspecting the wound.

The bullet had cut a deep gouge in his arm and it had bled substantially but was now congealing. It had initially looked a lot worse than it actually was. He pulled out an antiseptic wipe and cleaned it up, before tearing a bandage pack open and wrapping it tightly around the wound.

What Rach needed now was water and Porthos handed him one of the bottles he had, helping the young man to sip carefully.

Koslov, he knew, was dead; this was Naaji's work.

"What 'appened?" he asked, as Rach sat back.

"Long story," Rach grimaced. "I _tried_ Porthos. He took Nkosi and Anne. He pinned me down."

He wearily patted the earth next to him, where a deep hollow indicated where the last bullet Naaji had fired had impacted, leaving him no option but to stay put as his sister and Anne were taken.

"Why didn't he kill you?" Porthos asked. The man was a trained assassin, after all.

Rach tipped some of the water over his head, before smiling grimly at Porthos;

"This is much slower," he said. "The heat of the desert, followed by the cold of the night."

His smile faded then.

"Not knowing what was happening to my sister," he added. "Knowing I cannot help."

"You can't fight someone like that, on your own, lad," Porthos said.

"Anne hit him. But he was acting very strangely before that, Porthos," Rach said, with real fear in his eyes.

"We know he's a sick man, Rach," Porthos hummed. "Where did they go?"

"I heard him say they are going to my village, Porthos. My people are in danger. My father, and my brothers ..."

Porthos hummed, his mind a whirl.

"You were lucky," Porthos grunted as he tied off the makeshift bandage; his face now a bleak mask.

"What has happened?" Rach asked, watching him.

"Koslov's dead. Athos and d'Artagnan put up a fight and killed the bastard, but they've both been shot," Porthos ground out. "Aramis is takin' them back to the Garrison. I was going too, but _t_ _his_ fella," he said, rubbing Musket's ears, "suddenly appeared and led me to you. Didn't know what I would find." he added, before smiling briefly.

"How are they?" Rach asked, his hand on Porthos's arm, as Musket settled next to him.

Porthos had his head down, still stroking Musket, before sitting back on his haunches.

"Bad. Don't tell Nkosi. Or Athos's missus."

"We are going for them?" Rach asked, eagerly.

Porthos rallied and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Course we bloody are," he growled.

He picked up the bow and the sheath of arrows. "Looks like the San gave Athos and d'Artagnan these. No point wastin' them."

"Be careful, Porthos!" Rach cried. "The San use poisoned arrows!"

Porthos let go of the sheath of arrows as if it were red hot.

"Yeah, Aramis said that," he growled, recovering. "There was an arrow buried in Koslov, so if the fence didn't kill him, the arrow would 'ave."

"Fence?" Rach said, confused.

"Tell you on the way," Porthos replied, pulling Rach to his feet and handing him the bow and arrows.

"That's a good look," he grunted, looking him up and down, before pulling out his gun from his belt and handing it over.

"Just in case we get separated," Porthos grunted, before glaring at Rach, "Though I don't intend to."

Rach turned to head off, but Porthos stopped him.

"No more runnin'" he said. "We've got a truck."

He turned and headed back the way they came, Rach and Musket following him now.

"Just need to get it goin'" Porthos shouted over his shoulder. "It's been a long time since I hot-wired a vehicle."

 **To be continued ...**


	32. Chapter 32

**CHAPTER THIRTY TWO**

Finally, the Garrison came into sight; the compound floodlights in the distance eerily lighting up the night sky.

"We're here," Aramis breathed, never happier to see home-base.

Athos chose that moment to loudly jerk awake; his hands clutching at his side.

"No, no, no!" Aramis cried urgently, jamming his foot on the brake.

He leapt from the truck, running around the front to the passenger door. Yanking the door open, he crouched down, pulling Athos's hands away. They came away sticky with blood; his breathing ragged.

"Still, Athos. Be still. We are nearly there," Aramis said, softly, as he checked the bandage.

With great effort, Athos turned his head to the side so their faces were inches apart; their wide eyes locked.

"Nkosi," he groaned, through gritted teeth. "He has them. Naaji has Nkosi and Anne."

His eyes were losing focus. Aramis took his jaw in gentle fingers;

"Listen to me, Athos. Listen!" he urged. "Porthos knows. He's gone for them. He will bring them back."

Athos frowned and Aramis had to repeat himself. Something like recognition finally shone in Athos's eyes and his eyelids shuttered. His breathing was slowing down now. He was bleeding, exhausted and dehydrated but Aramis wasn't finished. He needed to give Athos something to fight for, now that he had imparted the message he had tried so hard to give them at the tree house, what seemed like hours ago.

He took hold of Athos's wrist and lifted it to eye level.

"Open your eyes," he said firmly. With great effort, Athos complied.

His bracelet filled his vision. Three green stones gleamed in the overhead light of the cab.

"Nkosi is with you. Don't break her heart. Just hold on."

With that, he cast a look in the back, where d'Artagnan had remained unresponsive since he had fastened him firmly in with the seat belts. He was beginning to half-suspect that the "controlled leap" the young man had corrected him on, may have resulted in a concussion, to add to the gunshot wound.

"You too," he said. "I'd kill you both if I wasn't trying to save you," he muttered as he closed the door and ran back around to the driver's seat.

Ahead, the floodlights beckoned him. To the left of the gates, he made out a large shining circle of torches; a make-shift helipad. It was a welcomed sight, reminding him that, in what was to come, he would not be alone.

"Nearly there," he said; more he realised, to reassure himself than his passengers.

Pushing the truck on, he began to rapidly flick the headlight switch on and off, signalling their final approach.

"Just hang on," he whispered.

oOo

Night had fallen too for Porthos and Rach as they left the Delta and entered the savannah on their way to the Tswana village. It was an unwelcomed hindrance, as they were not far from their destination now.

The darkness would have slowed Naaji down too, but he had had a head start and may have already reached the village by now.

They had both got out of the truck to stretch and get their bearings, after agreeing they would have to wait the night out. The threat of predators was ever-present and it was too dangerous to do otherwise. They would be no good to Nkosi and the Tswana dead. And Anne, he grudgingly thought. Rach had told him the story of their struggle with Naaji and he was feeling a little more benevolent towards her. He still had a lot of questions for her, but they would have to wait.

Musket sat in the back of the truck; his head through the window. The sight of the dog brought the ghost of a smile to his lips. He turned away and saw Rach smiling at him.

"What?" he growled.

"Moosket works his magic on you," Rach said. "He has _mzimu_."

Porthos raised an enquiring eyebrow.

"Spirit," Rach explained. "Moosket has spirit."

Porthos huffed, looking at the dog again.

Musket's tongue rolled from his mouth; his ears flopped in different directions and Porthos suddenly laughed.

"Yeah," Porthos replied, contemplating the journey the dog had had. "He's certainly got that."

It started to rain. The sudden brief downpour drowned out the natural sounds around them and made them both jump back under cover of the truck and prepare to settle down for the night.

oOo

They were up and about as soon as first light dawned, both eager to be on their way.

"Alright, native-boy," Porthos growled, affectionately. "I need you to give me the full layout of your village. We need to get in there unseen. So, I'm relyin' on you as to which direction we approach.

"'opefully, they'll leave some tracks after last nights rain, so we can see where they end up," he added.

Porthos knew the Tswana village but he needed a proper lowdown on the buildings. Where would Naaji take them? Which buildings had locks? Security had been increased since the latest Russian threat and he and Athos had given them locks and bolts and had shown them how to fix them, but the villagers had finished the job themselves.

Nyack had the largest hut as he was the elder and met his people there, listening to their problems and mediating between fractious neighbours, or sharing in announcements and celebrations. Some of the buildings were brick. Nyack's though, was traditional mud and they had given Nyack a lock and a bolt but did not know if he had fitted them. It was likely he had not, wanting to remain accessible to his people, but his sons may have persuaded him; at least until the threat was over.

The precious storehouse was another now-secure building. The Tswana had some trucks but they were kept in the open air, next to the goat herd compound. There were other out-buildings and some that had no walls, just thatched roofs.

The night rain had stopped as quickly as it had started and now in the dawn light, Rach continued to map out the position of the buildings of his village in the damp sand of the savannah, drawing the trees that encircled it.

"You said we should not split up, but I believe it will be best to," Rach explained as he drew the trees. "We can approach from two different directions, and these trees will give us protection."

Porthos studied the sand-drawing and hummed.

"Yeah, but we need a plan. We've no means of communication between us."

"We can see the whole village from here," Rach said, pointing to a place west of the drawing. It's on a slight rise, but is hidden from view. I used to hide from my brothers here," he added, grinning.

"Skippin' out of chores?" Porthos laughed.

"Have you ever milked a herd of unwilling goats, Porthos?" Rach asked.

"Nah, can't say I 'ave," Porthos clapped him on the shoulder, mindful of his bandaged arm.

"So we can hunker down and watch the village for a while," Porthos agreed. "Then split up, if we 'ave to."

"It's nearly full light, we should make a move," Rach said.

The boy had grown in confidence in Porthos's company and Porthos was happy to yield to his knowledge now. They would be on his own territory and Rach had met the man they were now tracking. He knew what Naaji was capable of and would carry the scar the man had given him for the rest of his life. If they were to prevent his people's bloodshed and free Nkosi and Anne, they would work together.

He was also relying on Rach to control the large white dog who was staring at them from the back seat.

oOo

As Aramis approached the Garrison, he saw that Treville had put two extra guards on the gates.

They waved him through and ahead, he saw Treville himself, waiting with two of their wardens and two stretchers.

The lights of his medical facility burned behind them; the double doors open and waiting.

It was a mad scramble to get the two unconscious men out of the truck and settled on the stretchers. Aramis then faced Treville, who held out his hand.

"You're all a sight for sore eyes," he said gruffly, relief written on his tired features. "Any word from Porthos?"

Aramis ran his hand through his hair.

"Nothing, Captain," he said, waving the wardens to begin moving the stretchers.

"It will be a long night," Treville said, as he joined the wardens and the four of them hurriedly pushed the stretchers into the building.

Aramis turned to close the doors when, in the distance, the low rumble of a helicopter heralded the arrival of the additional medical assistance he so desperately welcomed.

 **To be continued ...**


	33. Chapter 33

**A/N:** Fasten your seat belts ...

oOo

 **CHAPTER THIRTY THREE**

The noise grew louder as the helicopter approached, the whup-whup-whup of the rotating blades filling the still, night air. The accompanying blast of air and the whirl of upward dancing dust had Aramis turning his face away. He needed to be inside, but he also needed to welcome the medical team.

The helicopter hovered for a few moments and in that time, Treville appeared at his back.

"I'll show them in, Aramis! You're needed back there."

Aramis gratefully grabbed Treville's arm as they pushed past each other.

Treville waited until the helicopter bumped to a standstill. The gusts of air it pushed outward dropped and the clouds of dust settled. The torches had been extinguished by the downdraught but had done their job in guiding the craft down. The helicopter was now standing majestically in plain view of the floodlights as Treville crouched and prepared to run forward.

The rotor blades slowed to a final whirl and stopped, draping downward over the body of the aircraft as the force that had sent them rigidly spinning on the huge motor dropped away.

Treville reached forward and grabbed the passenger door handle.

The door opened and a booted foot appeared, followed by a blonde-haired man of some six and a half feet, who dropped lightly to the ground in front of him; backpack on one shoulder. Two further bodies emerged from the rear seat and Treville found himself momentarily surrounded.

"Dr Weiss?" Treville shouted, above the final throes of the dying motor.

"Captain Treville?" the man replied, holding out his hand.

"It's just Jean. Welcome to Heshima," Treville said, grasping the offered hand firmly as he looked around the group;

"You have no idea how grateful I am to see you all," he added, meaning every word.

Weiss introduced his colleagues; Eric Forte, an anaesthetist and Laura Moulier, a senior nurse practitioner.

"Works both ways, Jean," Dr Weiss said kindly. "We have the supplies you ordered," he added, as they all hurried across to the compound.

The supplies Weiss mentioned were the units of blood Treville had asked for. Aramis kept supplies in the well-stocked medical facility, but Treville wanted to be doubly sure that lack of necessary commodities would not have a detrimental affect on the proceedings. Aramis had detailed medical records of all staff on Heshima, brought about by the staff medicals he had insisted they all take when he had first taken up his post. It was a requirement that had disgruntled some, but had proved invaluable on a number of occasions. Africa had innumerable threats and any medical facility had a duty of care to its staff, visitors and tourists.

Treville took them to a room where they dropped their jackets and bags and Dr Weiss and his colleagues could change into their scrubs before taking them through to the examination rooms where Aramis was busy directing the two wardens as to where he wanted his patients.

Treville dropped back as Weiss pushed his way into the outer room, where Aramis was hooking up monitoring equipment and directing the positioning of stands which would hold fluids and bloods.

Turning, he visibly relaxed when he set eyes on his old friend. He and Peter Weiss, a Swiss national, went back a long way. This was the first time they had seen each other since a tour with the International Medical Corps nearly five years ago, though they had kept up with each other's careers and held the occasional conference call. He had only learned that Weiss worked at Gaborone Hospital when he had first taken up his post at Heshima and had held meetings with the Gaborone Medical Board to set up reciprocal arrangements between them in order to share expertise. Now, he was grateful that he had done that.

"Peter," Aramis said, coming forward and embracing him.

Weiss smiled and clapped his hands on Aramis's back; feeling the tension instantly.

"What do you want us to do?" he said, coming straight to the point.

Aramis quickly gave him his friend's names and a report of their injuries. He told him he wasn't there at the time of the attack and had not had time to make a fully-detailed examination, but gave him a run-down of the treatment so far, the antibiotics he had used and estimation of blood loss and dehydration. He briefly described the amount of time they had been missing, the plane crash and their trek across the Kalahari. He described their brief bouts of consciousness and added that he believed that although d'Artagnan's wound was a through and through, he may have hit his head. He said he was about to take their vital signs and check their blood pressure, when Weiss stopped him.

"Go and get a shower, Aramis," he said.

Aramis froze.

"What?" he whispered; not comprehending.

"My friend, you are running on adrenaline. Take twenty minutes; shower. Get your thoughts together. Then meet us back here. We will scrub up and prepare Athos and d'Artagnan. Their skin will need to be thoroughly cleaned and disinfected. We will do that. We will run the fluids and do the checks. When you return, they will be ready. They are in good hands now."

Aramis suddenly felt the effects of the last week. He looked down at himself. He was in no fit state to remain. He had crossed the desert himself. His shirt was stained with blood. He had spent the last half hour driving through the night with his heart very firmly in his mouth. Weiss had kindly overlooked the state he was in, but had seen instantly what he needed.

Weiss put both his hands on his shoulders. He was a head taller than Aramis, who suddenly felt exhausted but oh, so thankful.

"Go," the man said.

"Twenty minutes?" Aramis whispered.

"Less, if you like. More if you need," Weiss replied.

Aramis nodded and crossed the short distance to where Athos lay, pale and still. Weiss melted away as Aramis lay his hand on Athos's head and whispered a few words.

"You and I are going to spend a couple of hours together, brother. I know you are exhausted. You did magnificently. You saved d'Artagnan. A very kind nurse is tending him. You would like her," he smiled when he imagined Athos rolling his eyes at that, before the smile disappeared. "I need you to fight just a little longer. Don't give me any frights in there now."

Aramis straightened then and turned to Weiss once more.

"Please," he said, "Don't remove his bracelet."

Weiss frowned for a moment, before nodding. "We'll cover it with tape," he agreed.

Aramis then spoke to Dr Forte.

"He does not always react well to anaesthesia."

Forte nodded. "Brief me when you get back," he said.

With that, Aramis reluctantly turned to go, but not before looking through the glass that separated the operating room and the treatment room, where d'Artagnan lay, tended now by Laura Moulier, who had apparently slipped into the room as Aramis and Weiss were talking.

oOo

Meanwhile, Treville had retreated to his office to wait.

Waiting was always the hardest, he thought, as he sat at his desk, nursing a cup of black coffee. Not the best substance to steady his nerves, but better than cognac right now.

Having met Peter Weiss and his team, he felt reassured that his men would be well-cared for. That included Aramis, who had looked haunted when he brought the truck to a halt in front of him. Aramis and Porthos had been out of radio contact for some time during the past few days and he knew he would have to wait to hear the full story. There was also the matter of Nkosi, Rach and Anne. During their brief radio conversation, Aramis had not mentioned them. Treville had tried to contact Nkosi. Her truck had a radio but there had been no answer. He only knew from that brief radio conversation with Aramis that Koslov was dead and Naaji was still at large. Porthos was "staying behind," Aramis had said.

His thoughts turned to Porthos.

He was out of radio contact once more, but that did not concern him; Porthos had been on many solo missions in the time Treville had been his Commanding Officer. What concerned him was the lack of information on where he was and what he was doing. He did not blame Porthos for what he was doing. There was not much he could do back here at the Garrison. They had all been in that position last year when Athos was brought back having been rescued from the cave. Yes, waiting certainly was the hardest thing.

What Porthos would run into was no-body's guess but he was a force to be reckoned with and if he was angry, well. He had given up trying to temper that trait in him. Over the years, he had seen many sides to Porthos, but he was the most loyal of friends and, when the chips were down, he always came through. He was like a dog with a bone. Speaking of dogs …

Treville sighed and wiped his hand over his eyes. Swallowing the last of his coffee; cold now, he wondered what was happening a few yards away, across the compound.

oOo

Aramis braced his hands against the white tiles of the shower, allowing the water to cascade over his head and shoulders as he watched it drain away to the strains of Ella Fitzgerald's "Summertime."

Memories stirred as he slowly relaxed. He was glad Peter was here.

The jazz, the blast of the hot water, followed by a shot of cold had done their job. When he emerged, just sixteen minutes later, his skin was tingling and his brain was sharp. He had quickly changed into his own scrubs and, carrying his surgical cap, he had crossed the short distance and pushed into the outer room of the OR. Heading for the sinks, he scrubbed his fingers and forearms thoroughly three times. His stomach was still doing somersaults but he knew from experience that the moment he stood next to the table, that would disappear.

He took three deep breaths and, hands held up in front of him in classic surgeon-pose, he hip-butted through the double doors.

Weiss had been true to his word.

Athos's clothes had been discarded. He was now draped in a blue and white surgical gown. A cannula had been slotted into a vein in the back of his hand that would connect the fluid line that would keep him hydrated. Below the loose neckline of the gown, Dr Forte had placed five electrode stickers onto Athos's chest, ready to be hooked into the EKG machine.

Aramis looked through the window to see that d'Artagnan was now obscured by the blue curtain that had been pulled around his station.

Weiss then appeared beside him and gave him a reassuring smile.

"The young man is sedated and Laura is cleaning and sewing his wound," he said, briskly. "She will need help to turn him onto his front when she has done that. The exit wound is a mess. He will probably need a skin graft in the near future. The bone is intact," he reported. "And, I could find no sign of head trauma, Aramis," he added.

"Thank God," Aramis breathed, relieved that he had not missed an underlying injury.

"Shall we?" Weiss said gently.

The beeping of the EKG that filled the room indicated that Dr Forte was ready.

Aramis carried his need for music into the OR, this time choosing a Simon and Garfunkel album from his playlist on the computer set up at the far side of the room. He remembered it was an album he and Weiss had listened to on their base during their tour in Helmand. He had always found it calming. They had been referred to as the "Old Hippies," by their young intern colleagues, which was a little before their time, of course, but they took it with good humour. They could have been called a lot worse by the young people they were mentoring.

Aramis gently fitted a blue cap over Athos's unruly hair, as Dr Forte placed the mask firmly over his mouth.

When he was certain Athos was deeply unconscious, he tilted his head and carefully but skilfully inserted an endotracheal tube into his mouth and airway.

"Thank you, Doctor," Aramis said softly.

"Eric, please," the anaesthetist said as he began monitoring the drugs he would be using.

Aramis looked once more at the window that separated them from his young friend.

"Laura will call us if she needs us," Weiss said, as they waited until Eric nodded that they could proceed.

oOo

They worked into the night.

On one point, not long after they had started, Weiss slipped next door to help manoeuvrer d'Artagnan onto his front so that Laura Moulier could deal with the exit wound. She had closed the entry wound, but the exit wound was much larger and after a consultation it was agreed that they clean the wound and pack it with sterile dressings. It would be closed later, once it was evident that no infection was present.

Weiss administered a cocktail of antibiotics and enough sedation to keep d'Artagnan under for the rest of the night and well into the following day.

They then settled him onto his back with his leg elevated, flipped the wheels on the table and pushed it into the allocated room across the corridor. Laura remained there and Weiss left the room and crossed to the anti-room where he peeled off his gloves and threw them into the bin before quickly scrubbing up once more. Taking a new pair of gloves into Laura, he held up his hands while she snapped them on. Holding his hands away from his body, he then nodded his thanks and returned, backing into the OR to rejoin Aramis and his colleague.

All was quiet, except for the beeping of the machine and gentle, lilting background music.

Weiss retook his place opposite Aramis, assisting with suction, passing instruments and gentle comments. Both were aware of their colleague at the head of the table as he monitored the level of anaesthesia and made small adjustments.

Aramis shifted position and briefly bent backward to relieve his aching muscles, before returning to the task of retrieving the bullet, lodged deeply in Athos's side. Twice, he thought he had it, only to be frustrated.

Finally, with a sigh of relief, Aramis retrieved the bullet and held it aloft, clasped in the jaws of the forceps. He dropped it into a metal tray at his side with a grunt of satisfaction.

However, instead of turning back, he bent over the dish and hissed in a sharp breath.

Only his eyes were visible between his cap and mask as he looked across at Weiss, but Weiss knew something was wrong;

"What is it?" he asked, as the gentle guitar strains of "April Come She Will," played in the background.

Aramis was frowning.

"It's not intact," he replied; his voice dying away.

Weiss swore softly and quickly moved to his side, just as Aramis heard the words he did not want to hear from Forte …

"Blood pressure's dropping ..."

 **To be continued ...**

oOo

 **A/N:** Research studies have been undertaken on whether music in the OR is beneficial or not, but it seems that plenty of surgeons seem to like it and there are examples of surgeon's playlists on-line. Some, like "Knocking on Heaven's Door," not entirely appropriate perhaps? Aramis's choices are mine, you can insert your own if you don't agree, lol.

Just to say, I have no medical knowledge but am no stranger to cold coffee. And, sorry about the cliffie. But, I had to, didn't I?


	34. Chapter 34

**CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR**

Porthos had found a back-up pistol in Koslov's truck – probably insurance, he presumed, as Koslov was obviously intending bringing d'Artagnan back with him. He had given his own gun to Rach earlier, so he now had a hand weapon again, plus his rifle. He had plenty of ammunition but knew he would be reluctant to start a firefight in the village.

As they parked up, he tucked the new gun in his belt, at his back. They were still half a mile short of the village but now would go the rest of the way on foot, before making their way to the rise that Rach had indicated earlier. Rach held the bow over his shoulder and carried the sheath of arrows loosely in his hand. He seemed a lot more comfortable with them than Porthos had.

Soon the village came into view.

There were over twenty dwellings in the village. Some had woven fences around them, or small walls that delineated the extent of the properties. There were not many young adults now. Rach had few contemporaries; many of the young people left when they were old enough, forsaking their culture. Rach, however, was fiercely proud of his heritage as they had found out last year to their cost, when he had vehemently disagreed with Nkosi's choice of a European partner, Athos.

Porthos and Rach now lay face down, side-by side. Musket was laying calmly next to Rach, his head between his outstretched front legs. Below them, the morning had begun as any other for the villagers.

Women were cooking, young children carrying for their mothers or feeding the goat herd. They watched some of the men disappearing into the savannah, the rest tending to the cattle at the southern edge of the village. Fires were lit in the communal areas, no doubt for the mid-day meal, which would be shared by all. There were a few dogs running around; all the better for masking Musket's presence, should he decide to be vocal, Porthos thought.

As he watched the women preparing the meal, Porthos's stomach growled. He looked apologetically over at Rach, only to see him staring down at a group of young women tending the fire in the centre of the village. Some of the women moved off, leaving one on her own. It was this young woman that Rach was staring at.

Porthos reached across and put his fingers lightly on Rach's jaw, closing his mouth, and Rach looked distinctly embarrassed.

"She's pretty," Porthos said, with a smirk. "What's her name?"

"She is called Sethunya," Rach whispered, reverently, not taking his eyes from her.

"You want her for your woman?" Porthos ventured, turning to watch her himself.

Rach looked away.

"She does not want me," he said softly.

Porthos grunted, before turning back to Rach.

"She the reason you're doin' this?" he asked.

Rach had spent the year redeeming himself in the eyes of his people. If he now wanted to marry, what better way than undertaking a dangerous mission and proving himself a worthy suitor?

Rach suddenly tensed and rolled over, away from Porthos.

"She does not want me," he hissed, "Because she is promised to another!"

Porthos closed his eyes and dropped his forehead to the ground, instantly sorry that he had said what he had. Rach _had_ proved himself completely over the last week and now he had just maligned his integrity with a stupid throw away comment.

"Rach, I'm sorry, mate. I didn't mean ..." he began.

" _Yes_ , you did," Rach said, his voice low with anger.

With that, he jumped to his feet and moved away, keeping low and taking refuge against a tree a few yards away, his back to Porthos. Musket lifted his head, but did not follow. Porthos sighed and turned his attention back to the village.

"Me an' my big mouth," he muttered to himself.

Time passed. The sun rose higher in the sky and it grew hotter and humid. The smell of meat and spices began to drift into the air. Porthos was just about to undertake a low run and join Rach when a movement caught his eye on the near horizon.

Slowly, slowly, a truck drove toward the village.

He recognised it. It was Nkosi's.

He looked across at Rach and saw that he had seen it too. They both watched as it approached. Eventually, it stopped a short distance from the entrance to the village.

Some of the villagers were curious and watched, shielding their eyes from the sun, but nothing happened.

Rach suddenly appeared back at his side, sliding down next to him. Nothing happened for a while. The truck's engine had been shut off, but no-one emerged.

There was nothing to be done but wait.

"I'm sorry, Rach," Porthos tried again. "I 'ad no right to say what I did. You've been a trooper this last week."

Rach looked at him, before giving him a curious look.

"Is this a good thing?" he finally asked.

"Means you've done alright. Better than alright," he chuckled.

Rach nodded and they both turned their attention once more to the truck. A few moments later, the driver's door opened and Naaji got out. Porthos's fingers itched to pick up the rifle and fire off a shot, but he was on the far side of the truck and he was dragging someone out.

It was Nkosi.

She briefly struggled but he leant in and said something and she went very still. He pushed her forward and she walked ahead of him.

Some of the villagers tried to go to her, to welcome her, as they had not seen her for a week, but Naaji pushed them away. Then he pointed his gun and waved it in a circle ahead of them, clearing their path and the people stopped and shrank away.

Porthos turned his attention back to the truck, where he could see someone in the rear seat.

"That 'as to be Anne," he grunted. "What's goin' on? Why's he left her? What game is she playin'?"

He rubbed his forehead with his hand in confusion, before turning back to watch Nkosi.

She had led Naaji to her father's house and they had both disappeared inside. After a few moments, he reappeared on his own, slammed the door and fiddled with the lock.

"Damn," Porthos said. "Nyack's fitted the padlock we gave 'im. I'd 'ave bet money on 'im not doin' that."

"Oba will have insisted," Rach replied softly, his eyes still on the truck.

They watched as Naaji made a grab for the young woman Rach had been watching, Sethunya, and draped his arm around her shoulders, forcing her to walk with him back to the truck, a gun to her temple.

"He's usin' 'er as a shield," Porthos growled, but made sure he put a firm hand on Rach's arm to stop him doing anything.

Once at the truck, he opened the back door and Anne slid out.

To Rach's relief, Naaji pushed Sethunya away and yelled at her to go, before he and Anne walked to a nearby hut.

"What game is she playin'" Porthos said once more, as they disappeared inside and the door was firmly closed.

oOo

 **Heshima Medical Facility:**

The two surgeons had paused, all eyes on Eric Forte now.

"Still dropping," he said, as he watched the monitor reading from the automated cuff on Athos's arm.

"Can you stabilise it?" Aramis asked, watching Forte intently as he worked.

Low blood pressure meant less bleeding, as Aramis sought the bullet fragment. It was a grim window of opportunity, but anaesthetists did sometimes lower a patient's blood pressure intentionally to do just that during major operations. What they didn't want, was for it to continue falling.

"What is it now?" Weiss asked.

"90/65," Forte replied.

" _Can_ you can stabilise it?" Aramis asked. He needed time and Forte could buy him some.

"Give me a minute," Forte said.

"No more," Aramis replied tersely, wanting to get on.

The beeping of the EKG increased slightly and everyone held their breath. Apart from Eric Forte, who continued to work calmly.

Forte did not speak and the seconds stretched on.

The playlist had looped back to the beginning and was now filling the room with Vivaldi.

"Stable," Forte suddenly announced, before looking up. "Panic over."

Aramis gave Weiss a grateful glance before returning to his task.

"Who's panicking?" he said softly.

He flexed his shoulders and rolled his head to the left and right before bending once more over his patient.

"It must have hit a rib," Aramis muttered to himself as he turned his attention a few inches higher than the original bullet's location.

Weiss came to his side, giving moral support. If they did not find the fragment there was the possibility that they would have to leave it in the wound. Such occurrences had happened before, but it was not ideal, and he doubted Aramis would want to do that. The unspoken rule was not to operate on friends or relatives. Weiss was worried that Aramis was beginning to demonstrate the merit in that rule. Weiss now voiced his opinion.

"You may have to leave it, my friend," Weiss murmured.

Aramis did not respond.

" _Aramis._ "

"No," Aramis ground out. "I won't leave him with that uncertainty."

Aramis's forehead was wet with perspiration; his cap soaked.

"Very well, it's your call, my friend," Weiss said. "But I advise no more than ten more minutes."

"Eric?" Weiss asked, addressing his colleague.

"Still stable," the anaesthetist said. "But I'd prefer to bring his pressure up soon."

Aramis knew he did not have long, but he was determined to complete the surgery to his satisfaction. Telling Athos he had failed to retrieve all the fragments was not an option. That way led to an uncertain future and possibly more surgery and his friend had had enough. Right now, though, his condition was not good and the swift surgery he had hoped for had not happened. He trusted Weiss and Forte implicitly though, and silently agreed with their assessment.

But he was known for his stubbornness and some days he pushed it to the limit.

Today was one of those days.

He heard his name, heard the tone, knew what he should do, but he did not respond.

"Aramis," Weiss said, gently.

He lifted his head and locked eyes with Weiss.

Weiss stared at his friend, and then saw his eyes crinkle.

Beneath the mask, Aramis was smiling.

Looking down, Weiss saw he was lifting the forceps very carefully away. Held within them, was a fragment of metal. Dropping it into the dish, both bent to peer at it.

"It's a match," Weiss laughed, as the fragment completed the larger piece in the dish. "You did it, _mein Freund._ _Gut gemacht!_ " (my friend. Well done!)

Aramis leaned on the table and let his head drop. The uncertainly of chasing a small ballistic fragment was over. The surgery wasn't over, but the rest was routine. Weiss offered to do the suturing, but Aramis declined; politely reminding him that he was the plastic surgeon.

"If he is to moan about his scar, I would rather it be to me," he smiled.

"Very well," Weiss laughed, "Then I will check on our young friend, if you are sure?"

"Absolutely," Aramis replied. "I owe you both a drink.

"Over to you, Dr Forte," he said softly. "Let's get that blood pressure up a little now, shall we?"

Forte gave him a good-humoured mock salute;

"Just another day at the office," he smiled, as Weiss walked past him, pulling off his gloves.

"Do you sometimes think you are in the wrong job?" Aramis said then, aware of the exhaustion threatening to settle over him.

"Never," Forte replied instantly, as Vivaldi's Concerto No. 1, "Spring," swelled around them.

"Nor I, my friend," Aramis replied.

He closed his eyes and allowed the violins to lift his spirits, as he prepared to sew up his friend.

oOo

On the rise above the Tswana village, Porthos took his hand briefly off Rach's arm.

It was all that was needed.

The young man moved quickly and silently away, heading down the hill toward the village.

"Rach, what the 'ell are you doin'" Porthos hissed, but Rach was already out of earshot.

Musket sat up and watched him go. Giving Porthos a cursory glance, he set off after him.

"Give me strength," Porthos growled.

 **To be continued ...**


	35. Chapter 35

**CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE**

 **Earlier:**

Nkosi had walked placidly in front of Naaji as she led him to her father's house, though she thought her heart would burst through her chest. Her eyes flitted around, falling on some of the villagers who were stood helplessly watching as Naaji glared at them and waved his gun in their direction, before pushing it into the side of Nkosi's neck. Her eyes told them not to intervene, though she knew they were powerless to do so.

This morning, there were few men around, only the old or infirm. There was work to be done outside the village; the Tswana had crops to tend and cattle to manage. Cattle were a source of status and wealth for Tswana people, but western culture had also made itself known in terms of business and consumerism. There were pot makers and basket weavers amongst the Tswana, who kept up traditional values, but these skills also meant wealth for the different villages, which in turn improved their education and health facilities. Consequently, the villagers were more mobile as they conducted their lives, leaving the village sparsely populated at times.

She wondered where her brothers, Oba and Tabansi were, as they reached Nyack's home. Naaji pushed her ahead of him and she stumbled into the dark interior.

Nyack was sitting in a chair in the shadows.

Naaji stood behind Nkosi. Aware the old man had a machete resting across his lap. he threw his arm around her neck and dragged her back, so that she struggled to breathe.

"You and I have some business, old man," he said, his voice low.

"Father, please do not fight," Nkosi managed to whisper.

"Good girl," Naaji crooned. It was a different voice now and it made Nkosi shudder.

Nyack lifted the machete and Naaji tightened his hold. Nkosi reached up with both hands to try and loosen his arms, but he was too strong, caught up in his madness.

Seeing his beloved daughter struggle, Nyack dropped the machete to the ground, but Naaji did not loosen his hold.

The old man slowly stood and locked eyed with Naaji.

"I know what you want," he said. "The diamonds are not mine to give. They belong to the land."

Naaji growled.

"Don't take me for a fool, old man," he said, the voice angry now. Nkosi dreaded that voice.

"Let me speak to him," Nkosi whispered to Naaji, tears leaking from her eyes in her effort to breathe.

"Please," she said. "Let me speak to my father. I beg you."

At that, Naaji faltered and his hold loosened. He seemed confused and took a step back. Nkosi's tone seemed to have the effect of banishing the anger from him. He appeared to be considering what she was offering. He suddenly pushed her forward and she almost fell into her father's arms.

He walked forward and bent, picking up the machete.

At first, Nkosi thought she had failed,and drew her father behind her, shielding him. But before Nyack could protest, Naaji spoke again, the voice quiet now.

"One hour. And then I will be back."

He sliced the machete through the air and smiled.

"If you don't co-operate," he said, quietly. "Your people begin to die."

With that, he pushed the knife into his belt and left, locking the door from the outside.

Nyack and Nkosi were in no doubt that he would keep his promise.

oOo

With a quick glance to the hut where Naaji and Anne were, Porthos rose and followed after Rach but there was no sign of him. He and Musket seemed to have disappeared through the trees. Uncertain, he headed for Nyack's hut.

Several of the women shrank back as he made his way through the village, until some of them recognised him as the Heshima ranger who came the read with their children sometimes. He held his finger to his lips and moved carefully around the back of Nyack's hut, where he found a shuttered window.

There was only just enough room for him to climb through.

Once inside, he stood up and dusted himself down, making his way through to the living area.

"Porthos!" Nkosi cried, when he appeared in the doorway. She rushed across, wrapping her arms around him, her first sight of him since they had gone their separate ways in the Delta.

Porthos shook hands with Nyack. "Rach is here too," he said, though not telling him he didn't actually know where his son was.

Nkosi then asked the question he had been dreading.

"Athos and d'Artagnan?"

He had no idea what to tell them. He hoped Aramis had managed to get them back to the Garrison, but he had been out of contact since they parted. And so he stalled.

"Aramis has them," he nodded and to his relief, Nkosi accepted it, needing to tell him what Naaji had threatened.

"He gave us an hour," she said urgently. "He said he would then start killing us."

"Stay here," Porthos said, pulling his gun from his belt and handing it to her. "That's for your protection."

"He has Anne," Nkosi said then.

"I know," he replied. "I saw where they went."

He didn't have time to discuss Anne's motives, so he told them to stay put once more and he turned back; much to his annoyance, having to once more climb out through the window.

He made his way to the hut that Naaji and Anne now occupied. The villagers were giving him space now. Even though he was a friend, he was an imposing figure and they were aware and frightened of the madman in their midst.

Reaching the hut on the edge of the village, Porthos put his ear to the door and listened to the murmuring inside. He could hear Naaji's raised voice, interspersed with Anne's more placating voice. It went quiet then and he move back and waited; his patience slowly ebbing away. Just as he was preparing to barge in, the door opened quietly and he hung back.

Anne slipped out and he came face to face with her.

"Hello, darlin'" he growled, drawing himself up to his full height.

Anne, though, was unphased.

"Porthos, it's about time," Anne replied, coolly. "You boys are pretty slow aren't you?"

He did not tell her that two of "the boys" had been shot and were no doubt fighting for their lives back at the Garrison. That would wait.

"Out of the way," he growled.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him to one side.

"He's not alone in there," she hissed, her fingers digging into his arm.

"What?" he said, shaking her off.

"There's an old woman and a baby. He's barricaded them in the bedroom."

"Bloody hell," Porthos snarled, any thought of pushing Anne away and blasting Naaji to hell now gone.

"He's listening to "paranoid voice" at the moment," she said quietly. "Angry voice" has gone, but it could come back and we will be in trouble then."

"What?" Porthos said, totally confused.

She sighed.

"He's a schizophrenic. He hears voices. Surely you know that!"

"Yeah, but I've never met the bloke," Porthos growled.

She stood to one side.

"Well, please, be my guest," she hissed. "I was only going to search the truck for weapons. That can wait."

He ignored her, instead asking where Nkosi was, even though he knew. He just wanted her side of the story.

"Naaji locked her up with her father in his house."

"But not you?"

She sneered at him.

"No, Porthos. I seduced him and now I have him in the palm of my hand."

His nostrils flared as he looked down at her and for a moment, she thought she had overplayed it.

"Each to his own, love," he finally said, and she relaxed.

"It's all we could think of," Anne said.

"We?" Porthos said, confused once more.

"Nkosi and I," she replied, as if she was talking to a small child. "Didn't she tell you?"

"Didn't give her much chance," he replied. "Naaji gave them an hour before he starts shootin'" he said. "That's just about up."

Anne looked at the closed door;

"Nkosi and I agreed that if we could make Naaji separate us, we may have a chance. We were on our own," she hissed, when she saw his face. "What were we supposed to do?"

"And then what?" Porthos asked.

"Someone needed to manage his different personalities."

"And that would be you," Porthos said.

"Yes! That would be me. I think I'm better suited than Nksoi, don't you?"

Porthos huffed. Once again, this woman had turned the tables on him. Just when he thought there was nothing more ...

"It seemed the right decision. Nkosi loves her father," Anne was saying. "And … "

"She loves Athos." Porthos finished.

"The unfinished business I have with Athos," she said, no trace of her earlier smirk, "is a request that he divorce me. They can be together."

"Have you told _her_ that?"

"I will do."

Anne was getting impatient. She didn't like talking about emotions, he remembered.

"We're wasting time," she said. "He's wavering between three distinct voices. He's becoming more and more remote in between. It's during one of those times that I think he can be overpowered."

"It's madness," Porthos growled.

"So, do _you_ have a plan?" she asked him in frustration.

"Might 'ave," he replied, truculently. "Rach is around 'ere somewhere, not sure what he's up to, but the dog's with him."

"Oh, yippee," Anne said. "Musket to the rescue. Is he good with a gun?"

"You never know with that dog," Porthos slowly smiled.

She smiled then and they stood looking at each other.

"You're a strange one," he said.

"You can talk," she sniffed. " _Anyway_ , he's sent me out for water. There's some in the truck," she said. "Obviously if I try anything, he'll kill the woman and the baby," she added.

Inside the hut, they could hear Naaji muttering loudly to himself.

"Sounds unstable," Porthos said.

"You could say that," she replied.

He turned and ran across to the truck and pulled open the door, grabbing a bottle of water from the foot well. It felt pretty warm and he grimaced as he looked around the truck. His eyes fell on the radio, but they were running out of time. He made his way quickly back to Anne and handed her the bottle.

She took it without speaking and turned; her hand on the door catch.

"Wait," he said, "Be careful, yeah?"

"Believe it or not, Porthos," she said, smiling sadly at him, "At the moment, whoever he is, he appears to trust me. Isn't that ironic?"

"You mean he 'asn't killed you yet," Porthos said.

"Just be ready when we come out," she shot back.

Before he could stop her, she had slipped back inside.

"Yeah, one of him might trust you, but what about the rest?" Porthos muttered.

oOo

Time was ticking by.

Porthos was waiting for Anne to emerge, suddenly realising that he was putting _his_ trust in her. He glanced at his watch, counting down.

Seconds later, there was a loud crackle and the radio in the truck burst into life.

" _Abass_ ," a voice called out; " _Abass, Listen to me ..._ "

Inside the hut, the baby suddenly started to cry and Porthos took off around the back of the hut, fearing the worst for the old woman and her charge.

" _Abaaaassssss_ ," the voice called, the radio making the word sound both unworldly and eerie.

The door opened and Anne stepped out with Naaji behind her, looking angry and confused.

" _Abbass_ ," the voice called, wheedling now, and he spun around staring at the truck, now parked along side the hut; its doors wide open.

Behind them, the baby was screaming now.

Naaji was shaking his head, the voice calling his name and the baby both throwing him into confusion.

"Abass!" a new voice shouted and Naaji spun around.

In front of him was Rach, the boy Naaji had left for dead.

Suddenly the air was rent with a loud howl and Naaji turned back, almost staggering.

Musket stood before him, eyes locked on his and teeth bared.

But Musket was not alone. Nkosi and her father were with him, along with two other villagers. Young men, who he had not seen before.

One of them smiled.

"There are diamonds under our feet," Oba said. "And as far as you can see."

Distracted, Naaji's eyes widened and his licked his lips. Koslov had been right.

The people were slowly emerging. They were watching the wild-looking man and the dark haired European woman at his side.

Naaji was shaking his head now, as all his voices began to screech. He was at his most dangerous now, lost in the madness made worse by the confusion around him.

Nkosi locked eyes with Anne and she flicked her eyes to her right. Anne understood immediately and took a step to the side.

The moment she moved, Naaji jerked and Anne gasped. There was an arrow buried in Naaji's back. Almost at the same moment, there was a gunshot and a bullet hit him in the chest.

Anne looked behind her and saw Rach slinging the bow back on his shoulder. In front of her Tabansi was lowering his pistol.

Naaji dropped to his knees, dead before he hit the ground.

"But you will never have them," Oba said.

oOo

"Good work, brothers, Oba smiled.

"I like this bow," Rach said, a he stepped over Naaji's body to join them.

"I prefer the gun," Tabansi said. "Do you think Porthos will want it back?"

"Yeah, I will," Porthos said, as he came into view, the baby now quiet in his arms.

"Where were you?" Anne said, her eyebrow raised.

"I could see you all 'ad it under control," he lied.

Anne huffed and turned her attention to Oba.

"There are diamonds under here?" Anne asked, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

oOo

A little later, Rach explained that he seen his brothers returning in the distance and that was why he had taken off. The three of them had gone straight to Nyack's hut and Nkosi had given Tabansi Porthos's gun. Oba and Tabansi had told them to stay and had set off to help Porthos. Of course, Oba had said with mock indignation, his father and his sister had not listened to him and they had all arrived at the hut just in time to see Porthos in the truck, doors open and the radio crackling into life.

"Just needed to get a little confusion going on," Porthos said, explaining how he had co-opted his Captain to play his part in Naaji's downfall.

"I hated making the baby cry," Anne smirked.

"Shame on you," Porthos growled.

The villagers had taken the old woman and the baby back into their care and some of them now surrounded Naaji's body; a man many of them had thought possessed. Porthos crouched next to the body, preparing to remove it.

"Leave him," Oba said. "We will dispose of him."

A little later, when things had settled down, Nkosi hugged Nyack and her brothers and they said their goodbyes.

As Porthos walked toward the truck, Nkosi and Anne beside him, he sighed.

"There's something I need to tell you," he said, his thoughts turning to his brothers.

They were all going back to the Garrison and Porthos now needed to explain what had happened at the tree house. Treville had given him a quick reassurance but Porthos could tell he was holding back. Porthos didn't have the full picture, but he would tell Nkosi and Anne what he could.

It was not a task he was looking forward to.

 **To be continued ...**


	36. Chapter 36

**CHAPTER THIRTY SIX**

"Oh God," d'Artagnan groaned.

Where was he?

It was daylight; the sun was shining through the window. Window. Not the tree house. The walls were white, not wooden logs. Mopane tree logs. He screwed up his eyes as the nagging pain made itself known. Where was it? Hip. No. Leg. It was his leg. He tried to bend his knee but nothing happened. But the pain was thrumming now. There was something … he raised his hand and swiped at his face. Tube. Nasal tube. Oh.

A warm hand took hold of his fingers and pulled his hand away. They gently squeezed. Who? He turned his head and the room swam and then settled as he met eyes he had never seen before. Blue. Blue-green. Beautiful eyes. A voice then. A gentle voice, but firm. Husky. A nice female voice. The words flowed over him. Around him. He couldn't catch them. The room swam once more as he turned to look down at himself. A white sheet. His leg. In a contraption. Hoisted. He moved his toes, and nothing hurt. Not there anyway. His thigh, for that was where the pain had settled, was held tight in a circle of fire. It felt like a circle of white hot metal, though that wasn't right. They wouldn't do that to him. Would they? And the nice voice kept floating, just out of reach because of the damned pain.

"Don't try and move," the voice said, the words finally settling.

Another voice then, deeper. Male. Not Aramis. Where _was_ he?

"d'Artagnan, my name is Peter Weiss. This is Laura. We have been helping Aramis to treat you."

"Ar'mis?" he managed, before the pain lanced, sharp again and took his breath.

"Lie still, we'll get you some pain relief."

 _Hurry._

It seemed to take an age as he lay immobile, his muscles taut as he listened to them moving around. And then fingers took his and a warm rush seemed to flow into his hand. Seconds later, the room gave a shudder and he gratefully let go. The last words he heard were, "He's under." There was no time to say thank you.

oOo

Both Peter Weiss and Laura Moulier joined Aramis back in the OR as he was about to staple Athos's wound. Eric Forte was still in position, monitoring his vital signs until Aramis finished and they would move him out to the room next to d'Artagnan.

Aramis had put in a whole mix of non-absorbent sutures together with staples. The external staples would remain for seven days. Weiss assisted on the final part of the procedure, before humming his approval.

"You are one of the best plastic surgeons I know, Dr d'Herblay," he said quietly as he admired his friend's work.

"Only one of them?" Aramis smiled, without looking up.

"Well," Weiss said, glancing a Laura with a smile, "There was than Argentinian surgeon we met in Rome," he said.

"Ah yes, that was a good Conference," Aramis murmured.

"As I recall, you always had a weakness for _la bella signore_ _."_

Aramis looked up and met his eyes, before giving Laura an apologetic look.

"No more so than any other nationality, mon ami," he replied, neatly sidestepping the good-hearted accusation.

Laura coughed and brought the banter to a halt, as she intended.

"How is he?" Aramis asked. He had wanted to finish the stapling before hearing their report on d'Artagnan, but he could see they were both looking relaxed. He could not endure much more. He was still worried about Porthos. He had seen Treville watching through the glass and the Captain had given him a tight nod, but he would not relax until he and the others were back.

"He woke briefly," Weiss replied. "But was confused and in pain. I've dosed him up. It's all on his chart when you are ready."

"That's excellent news. Not the pain part, obviously," Aramis murmured.

"In a day or two, when you're ready to close his wound, let me know if you require assistance," Weiss said.

"Thank you, Peter," Aramis said. Dropping his implements into a nearby dish. "I am grateful to you all."

"Well, we may call on you at some point," Weiss said. "We have that arrangement."

"And I will be happy to oblige," Aramis said, straightening his back.

He turned to Dr Forte in silent query and was given a nod of assurance.

"Time to get you tucked up in a nice comfortable bed, my friend," he said, as he removed the thick green sheet that had been covering Athos from head to foot.

Seeing his face now, Aramis pressed his lips together.

Athos was pale, his face in repose made him look younger than his years. A few dark hairs were plastered to his forehead, having escaped the surgical cap. Aramis reached down and gently pulled the cap forward from his friend's head, releasing his mop of thick dark hair.

As experienced as he was, he would never get used to the sight of someone he loved in such a helpless state.

oOo

Treville was waiting in the outer room for word.

Leaving Athos in Eric Forte's care, Aramis and Weiss hurried through to change out of their scrubs, while Laura headed for the coffee machine in Aramis's office. Aramis was changing his scrubs for clean ones, as he would be spending time with his two friends. Weiss changed into his outer clothes, as he and his team would be leaving soon.

Treville had been under tremendous strain over the past week, relegated to waiting for news of them and liaising with Interpol. Aramis gave him a succinct report on the condition of his two men, and in return, Treville explained what he knew of what had happened at the Tswana village. The main thing, was that Naaji was dead and their friends were returning. There was a complex tale to tell, but they would both wait. Treville then told Aramis that he had called in two of Aramis's regular nurses and they were due to arrive within the hour. He expected that Aramis could rest, but he knew he would not, until his friends were out of danger and Porthos had returned.

oOo

When Aramis slipped into the room where Athos would be spending the next week, he was pleasantly surprised that Laura had beaten him to it in setting up the room. There were two infusion stands next to the bed ready for bloods and IV fluids for the next twenty four hours. The monitor was in place. There was also a clean gown on the bed. The window was open, allowing a breath of air into the room. She had filled the water jug and filled the plastic cup receptacle, anticipating the number of visitors who would soon spend time here.

She was standing by the open window, sipping her second cup of coffee.

"That stuff is no good for you," Aramis said gently as he looked appreciatively around the room.

"There are worse vices," she smiled.

"Thank you," he replied. "For this."

She turned then and looked at him. She looked tired herself, but there was a brightness to her that he appreciated.

"You must be exhausted," she said. "Will you be able to get any rest?"

"Two of my nurses are on their way. Once they know it's Athos, I won't get a look in," he laughed, before cutting it off.

"You are allowed to laugh, Dr d'Herblay," she whispered.

"Sorry," he murmured. "It's just beginning to catch up on me, I think."

 _Was it ever_.

"You have had an awful time," she agreed. "I spoke to your Captain."

"We all have, Laura," he said, wearily. "Right now, I cannot wait to see Porthos and Nkosi."

"Nkosi?" she asked, the cup poised halfway to her lips.

"Athos's ...well, I'm not quiet sure what they are to each other now. They parted under difficult circumstances."

"Parted?" she repeated. "Forgive me, I don't mean to pry."

"When I say "parted," he continued, " I mean the last time they saw each other, before Athos disappeared in the plane."

"Ah. So there is unfinished business," she smiled. "Never go to bed on an argument."

"I'll remember that," he laughed. "Although, it was more than an argument. His ex wife showed up," he finished, aware he was overstepping confidences, but needing a sympathetic ear, even if it related to his friend. He had purposely said "ex wife" as otherwise it would have been too complicated to explain.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I wasn't expecting that!"

"Neither was he," Aramis smiled. "It will be interesting to see what happens when they reunite."

When she threw him a puzzled look, he elaborated.

"She showed up. And then went with Nkosi to try and find him."

"Goodness," she said softly. "What complicated lives you all lead."

"Speaking of that," he said stepping forward and taking the cup from her hand.

"Would you like to go for a drink, or something, when I am next in your area?"

She gave him a look and he almost apologised.

Then she smiled.

"Well, I would like to see how Athos and d'Artagnan are fairing," she said. "So … perhaps."

"Good!" he said, relaxing. "Good."

"We're ready for him, then," he stated, stepping away and looking around the room once more.

"We're ready," she replied.

oOo

Most of the fixtures and fittings in the facility were on lease. It meant Aramis could have state of the art equipment that their visitors and tourists would expect. In the last year alone, he had performed two emergency appendectomies and delivered a baby. Added to that, were countless minor injuries, some a little more serious – bites and stings that could turn very problematic if not treated. There was also Athos's "accident" last year which had taxed him to the core. He had ambitions for the future, but at the moment, in view of what they had accomplished overnight, he was satisfied and relieved.

Now, they wheeled Athos in and body-boarded him gently into the bed. Laura helped hook up the drips and wires and Aramis deftly removed the surgical gown he had been wearing through the operation and reconnected the monitor wires onto the stickers on his chest. Then, he manoeuvred Athos into the fresh gown. Laura gently lifted his head while Aramis velcroed the tabs in place at the back of his neck. The last thing was the nasogastric tube that would deliver nutrients and medicines and the pulse oximeter, that clipped to his index finger.

Finally, he peeled off the tape that had kept Nkosi's bracelet sterile and twisted it around so that the stones sat on the top of his wrist.

"Pretty," Laura said, as she watched.

"Christmas present from Nkosi. He's never taken it off," Aramis said, a lump forming in his throat.

"That's why you wanted it taped up," she replied, smiling. "Even though he wouldn't know."

"This is Athos," he said, recovering. "Of course he would know."

Half an hour later the sound of the helicopter blades beating through the air were heard, and the dust outside started to fly as it landed once more.

Weiss was waiting outside with his bags, phone clamped to his ear, as Laura and Eric joined him.

"One more stop, and then we're off duty," he said, putting his phone away.

"Busy, busy, busy," Laura said and she and Eric climbed into the rear of the helicopter. She gave Aramis a cheerful wave, holding his gaze a few minutes longer than necessary and then Weiss turned to pull him into a firm embrace.

"I meant what I said," he said. "Call me if you need me. Otherwise, I will see you soon."

"Thank you, Peter," Aramis said fiercely, and the two parted.

Aramis ran back to stand with Treville in the entrance to the infirmary and together, they watched as the beast took off, nose pointing downward, before gaining height and banking away.

Treville clapped Aramis on the shoulder and they turned, heading back inside.

oOo

Some miles away, Porthos saw the helicopter against the clear blue sky in the distance. He recognised it, and his heart sank. He did not know whether it was taking one or both of his friends for emergency treatment at the regional hospital, or worse.

He gripped the wheel tightly and pressed the accelerator to the floor.

Musket was curled up on the passenger seat next to him, seemingly oblivious to the uneven motion of the truck, his belly full of stewed goat; a parting gift from Rach. That, and the woven strand of leather he now wore around his neck. Rach had accepted the huge bearhug he had bestowed on him and, over his shoulder, Porthos had caught sight of a certain young lady looking at Rach in an interesting way.

Nkosi and Anne were talking quietly in the rear and if they noticed the increase in speed, they said nothing.

"My business with Athos," Anne was saying, "is to ask for a divorce."

Porthos tuned back in. He was glad that Anne had told her at last. He had wondered if she would change her mind when she saw him again, but she had said it now. And from what he now knew of Anne, she was true to herself. He watched in the rear-view mirror as Nkosi turned her whole body toward Anne.

"Really?" she asked, her eyes wide. It made him smile.

"It's the right decision," Anne said firmly, patting Nkosi on the hand, before catching herself and withdrawing it.

Nkosi had been bereft when he told them of the shooting, dissolving in his arms. He had tried to comfort her, as Anne walked away, seemingly unmoved, but he had seen the tension in her shoulders; the twisting of her hands.

Watching as the helicopter disappeared on the horizon, Porthos pulled his thoughts back to the present, his hands tightening once more on the wheel.

Behind him, Nkosi and Anne had fallen silent. Any thoughts on the future depended on what was happening in the Garrison, which was now visible in the haze ahead.

 **To be continued ...**


	37. Chapter 37

**A/N:** Thanks once again for reading and reviewing. Not long to go now.

In the meantime, Porthos wants a quiet word or two:

oOo

 **CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN**

In the late hours of the afternoon, there was a commotion in the compound.

Porthos, Anne and Nkosi - exhausted, dusty and anxious - rushed into the kitchen where Treville and an equally-exhausted Aramis, still in his scrubs, were waiting.

"Are you all alright?" Treville asked, after Porthos had drawn Aramis into a hug and then shaken Treville's hand, patting his shoulder for good measure.

"Naaji is dead," Porthos confirmed, speaking for all of them. "It's over."

Treville turned to Anne, who was standing a little apart from Porthos and Nkosi. She was dishevelled, and there was a dark bruise on her jaw, but she looked as defiant as ever. He noticed that she was still sporting her trademark red lipstick. He suppressed a smile at her chutzpah. How alike she and Athos were in their sheer bloody-mindedness. After her trial, he had prayed that she would never reappear in Athos's life. She would have killed him in the end, had she not killed his brother. Looking at her now, he looked forward to hearing about her part in this drama.

"I'd like a quiet word when you have time, Madame," he said formally. She frowned but asked no questions.

"Very well," she replied, resigned to another challenge. Taking the truck had probably been a bad decision, but she would stand by it, Treville be damned. She walked over to the sofa and sat down heavily. None of her previous gracefulness was evident, her body language shutting them out, denying them any further contact for the moment.

Across the room, Nkosi was staring at Aramis.

"What has happened?" she asked quietly, glancing at Anne, who turned her head and now looked equally concerned.

"You'd all better sit down," Aramis said.

oOo

Aramis explained everything that had happened since he had brought Athos and d'Artagnan back to the Garrison. He brought them up to speed with their injuries and said, when they all started talking at once, that they could see them both for a few minutes, once they had all cleaned up, but that d'Artagnan was asleep and Athos still had to regain consciousness.

Then, they followed Aramis over to the medical facility and stood in the corridor, outside the door to d'Artagnan's room; looking through the glass.

"He's on strong painkillers. He's been in and out for a few hours," Aramis explained. "I've scheduled him in to sew up his exit wound."

They moved along the corridor to the next door, too look through the glass at Athos. Nkosi put both hands over her mouth and Porthos put his arm around her shoulders. Anne leaned on the wall, staring through the window, but Porthos knew she would not accept comfort and so he let her be.

"Can I go in?" Nkosi asked Aramis, without looking at him, still staring through the glass.

"Clean up first, Cheri," Aramis said. "We need to keep him safe."

They all fell into silence for a few moments, before Anne suggested she and Nkosi go back to the hotel, shower and change and then come straight back. Aramis agreed that was a good idea, saying he would have food ready for them when they returned.

He kissed Nkosi on both cheeks and she turned and walked, straight-backed, down the corridor. Anne's eyes slid across to Aramis and she held the look for a few moments. Aramis nodded slightly, and she pushed off the wall and followed Nkosi, at first slowly, but then suddenly walking more purposefully, aware perhaps that Aramis and Porthos were watching her. When she had gone, Porthos asked a question, still staring through the glass.

"Can I 'ave a few minutes with him, Aramis?"

Aramis sighed;

"You heard what I told them, my friend."

"I know," Porthos whispered. "But ... he's my mate."

Aramis followed his gaze, before relenting;

"Of course," he murmured. "But you must gown-up, including the cap," he said. "And make sure to wash your hands thoroughly in the basin," Aramis said, squeezing Porthos on his arm.

Porthos nodded gratefully and followed Aramis into the outer room, where he showered and put on scrubs, a cap and a face mask.

Aramis was waiting for him when he emerged and nodded approvingly.

"You look the part," he smiled.

"Good job he won't see me," Porthos grumbled. "I'd not live it down."

The gentle humour helped as Porthos followed Aramis into Athos's room. Despite the shower, he walked softly over to the sink set into a unit in the corner of the room and started to give his hands and forearms a further, thorough wash.

Aramis followed him in and stood quietly at the end of the bed until he had finished.

"How's he doin', really?" Porthos asked, over his shoulder as he pulled paper towels from the dispenser and quickly dried his hands.

"I'd be happier if he woke," Aramis replied, picking up the chart from the end of the bed.

"Wait," Porthos said. "He's not sedated?"

"Only lightly now," Aramis said quietly. "He should be able to fight his way through it."

"He is goin' to wake up though?" Porthos asked, his eyes wide.

Aramis hesitated for a second and Porthos bristled.

"Tell me, he's going to wake up, Aramis," he growled.

Aramis gave a careful reply; "I cannot see why he wouldn't."

"That's not an answer," Porthos said, tersely.

"It's the best one I have," Aramis replied, firmly.

They stood looking at each other, before Porthos broke eye contact and looked down at Athos.

"What are all the tubes and wires?" Porthos asked. He knew from past experience of course, but was a little lost for words at Aramis's statement and the sight of his friend.

Athos lay flat, which, Porthos knew, he would hate. He was breathing for himself, but it was slow and Porthos couldn't take his eyes from his friend's chest, watching the slow rise and fall. After a few moments, he realised that he had fallen in step with it, breathing slowly and steadily. He felt his anger diminishing, though he would have happily punched something if he had been alone.

"The clear one is feeding him," Aramis was saying. "The red one ..."

"I know what the red one's doin'" Porthos interrupted abruptly, though he seemed calmer.

"The wires are monitoring," Aramis continued. "Forewarned is forearmed," he added, "And his kidneys are working," he murmured.

"Yeah, I can see that," Porthos muttered. He briefly smiled then, before turning to glance at Aramis. "He's gonna love you.

"Why is he still unconscious?" he asked.

"Blood loss. Shock. Exhaustion. Dehydration," Aramis replied. "The list is long. "Both he and d'Artagnan were in poor condition when they arrived. In Athos's case, it's taking a little longer than I would like for him to come back to us. His body is taking advantage of the enforced rest."

"You reckon?" Porthos grunted, as he walked slowly over. Passing behind Aramis though, he rubbed him gently on his back as he went. All was forgiven.

"Thank you, Aramis," he said softly.

"Just doing my job," Aramis said, with enforced lightness.

Porthos stilled him with a hard glare.

"Nah, seriously, thank you. You're doin' much more than that."

Aramis conceded and tilted his head in acceptance of the compliment. "I'll give you a few minutes," he said. "Then, my friend, you need food and rest."

"Don't think that'll 'appen," Porthos huffed.

"Neither do I, but I would be failing in my duty of care if I did not suggest it," Aramis smiled as he left Porthos alone in the stillness of the room.

Porthos had been here before with Athos. Then, it was bad. Now, he had no idea. What he did know, was that he wanted to see his friend's eyes. He wanted to feel his glare. Hear his grumbling when he realised what a predicament he had gotten himself into. Athos didn't do recuperating well. Aramis would have his work cut out for him. They all would.

"Hey, tough guy," he said, gently, pulling up a chair.

"You're lookin' a bit more comfortable than the last time I saw you. Aramis says he got the bullet out, eventually. You gave 'im another scare, though," he said, looking down at his friend. "An' you seem to be collectin' scars."

He sat down heavily and gently lifted Athos's hand, sucking in his breath at the limpness of it, resting on his large palm.

"Naaji's dead. So it's new day," he said quietly. "We can put this all behind us.

"So you can wake up now.

"Please."

oOo

A short while later, with a heavy heart, Porthos slipped next door and carefully let himself into d'Artagnan's room. Thinking he was still asleep, he was surprised when d'Artagnan opened his eyes.

"Hello, Porthos!" d'Artagnan sighed, happily, a big smile on his face.

d'Artagnan patted the sheet next to him. "Come and sit with me!" he said, earnestly.

Porthos looked at him cautiously, before eyeing the chair at the side of the room.

"I think it'll be best if I sit 'ere," he said, in amusement, as he dragged the chair across.

d'Artagnan was stoned.

"You on the good stuff?" Porthos asked as he dropped into the chair.

"Don't know, don't care," d'Artagnan said, dreamily, holding out his hand.

Porthos laughed and reached across, taking hold of his hand. It was cool. That was a good sign. Aramis had said he had been running a slight fever during the night, but all looked better now.

The Gaborone Hospital medical team had gone now, though Treville had taken him aside and said Dr Weiss had been reluctant to leave Aramis alone here, as he had looked exhausted. The last forty eight hours had taken its toll and Aramis had been increasingly unwilling to accept any help. Finally, Treville said he had taken matters into his own hands, threatening to order one of the nurses due on duty to stab him in the bum with a sedative if he didn't go and rest. But then, Porthos had arrived and that hadn't happened. He had made a mental note to add his voice to Treville's when he finished here. The girls were due back soon, so Aramis could catch some rest. There were enough people around now to let Aramis know if anything happened.

"Where's Athos?" d'Artagnan asked now, watching Porthos with unfocussed eyes. "What happened?"

Damn. Either he couldn't remember what had happened in the tree house or he had forgotten. In any case, Porthos could not fill him in completely, as they had both been unconscious when Aramis and he had arrived. d'Artagnan had obviously shot an arrow into Koslov, but perhaps he didn't know that Athos had engineered his fall through the trapdoor, after having been injured himself.

Cautiously, Porthos gave him the best answer he could.

"He's next door."

Hopefully, d'Artagnan would not pursue it and they could inform him later, when he was more compos mentis. But it was not to be.

d'Artagnan frowned, his eyes clearing a little as he took in his large friend.

"Hurt?" he asked, his eyes wide.

"Hurt, yeah," Porthos replied.

d'Artagnan started to push his sheets away.

"Whoa, whoa!" Porthos cried, reaching forward and pinning him to the bed with one hand.

d'Artagnan's leg was raised in a contraption of some sort. He wasn't going anywhere soon, but he seemed oblivious of the fact.

"Porthos," d'Artagnan said, suddenly taking hold of his wrist in a surprisingly tight grasp.

"Sshhh," Porthos soothed, "Tell me what you remember, an' I'll try and fill in the gaps."

d'Artagnan let go and leaned back on his pillows. Porthos poured him some water and handed him the glass, which he sipped, a frown on his face.

"Koslov's dead," d'Artagnan said, dully.

"Yeah, dead as a dodo," Porthos said, encouragingly.

d'Artagnan's eyes suddenly filled with tears and Porthos quickly took the glass from his hand and set it down. He had to remember, d'Artagnan was high on medication and this may go one of many ways.

"Is Athos dead?" he asked then.

"No!" Porthos said, "No! He was shot, like you, but he's alive!"

"Yeah?" said d'Artagnan, sniffing. Porthos was suddenly touched by the sight of him; more boy than man. High, confused and now, very upset.

"Yeah," Porthos replied, nodding, watching as d'Artagnan matched the movement of his head, until they were both doing the same action.

"He was shot?" d'Artagnan frowned.

"Yeah. It's a muddle, and Aramis and me, we didn't get there until the firefight was all over," Porthos said, being careful to speak plainly so the young man could follow. Though he doubted d'Artagnan would retain the information he was giving him, looking at him.

"You were in the livin' room," Porthos said. "Looks like you fell into it from the roof."

"Controlled leap," d'Artagnan corrected, sagely, before staring at Porthos.

Porthos laughed.

"Yeah, that's right. You seem to have controlled your leap into the livin' room real well. The door wouldn't open when we got there, so we didn't see you at first."

d'Artagnan nodded, waiting for more.

"But Koslov seems to have fallen through the trap door," Porthos continued, carefully. "He was impaled on the fence. Athos was on the walkway, shot, but we reckon _he_ set the trapdoor to fall. "Only," he added, "Koslov had a poisoned arrow in him and you had a bow next to you. So you must have done that bit."

"The San People," d'Artagnan muttered, nodding. "They gave us a bow. Had to be verrrry careful, Porthos," he added.

Porthos smiled, his previous concern for Athos giving way in light of this strange conversation.

"I killed him," d'Artagnan suddenly said, the memory of seeing Koslov menacingly filling the doorway seeping in.

"Well, I think you both had a hand in it," Porthos said.

"And Athos?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Aramis got the bullet out," Porthos said, skipping the full story and trying to make it as simple as possible. "He's in recovery."

"Can I see him?"

"When Aramis says you can get up. In a day or two, perhaps."

"Or he can come see me," d'Artagnan said, eyebrows raised.

"No," Porthos said gently. "He can't."

"Why?" d'Artagnan asked, his voice very small.

"Why what, love?" Porthos asked.

"Why can't he visit?"

Porthos swallowed.

How could he tell him that Athos hadn't woken up yet? And that they had no idea when he would. He couldn't. So he lied.

"You know why. You're a vet, remember? Cross-infection and all that," he said.

"Oh yeah," d'Artagnan nodded.

"You rest, now," Porthos said, squeezing d'Artagan's hand. "I'll be back later."

"Night, Porthsss," d'Artagnan managed, before his eyes fell shut.

Porthos watched him for a few moments, before slowly standing. All his muscles hurt. He'd lost track of the days and he had a headache starting. The girls were due back anytime now and he needed to make himself scarce. He let himself out of the room, but instead of leaving, he looked toward Aramis's office. The door was slightly open and he could see Aramis sitting at his desk, his back to him.

So he headed back to Athos. He only needed a few more minutes.

He washed his hands once more and walked toward the bed, but he didn't sit. He went to the window that overlooked the compound. The lake in the near distance shimmered in the bright sunlight. He turned and looked at Athos and took a deep breath.

"I've just 'ad a chat with d'Artagnan," he whispered, as he took his seat once more.

"I was on the chair and he was on the ceiling," he laughed quietly, squeezing Athos's fingers.

"Drugged up to the eyeballs, he is.

"He's ok. Back in the OR tomorrow to get 'is leg sewn up properly. Laura's coming back soon. You'll like her, Aramis says. He likes her. _I_ _know;_ he likes every woman who looks at him. And some that don't.

"I'm ramblin' Athos. Just not used to you not rollin' your eyes at me or smirkin' - makes me nervous.

"So wake up soon, yeah? d'Artagnan wants a visit. Haven't told 'im you're bein' a lazy bugger."

He looked up and saw Aramis in the corridor, quietly watching. He pointed down, silently asking if he wanted to come in. Aramis nodded and Porthos turned back to Athos.

"Looks like I have to go now. Boss's orders. You know what he's like. Nkosi will be here soon. She's been through a lot. Just making herself beautiful for you. That won't take long, will it? You got a good one there, mate. And, you were right about Rach. He's a good kid. I'll tell you all about it when you grace us with your presence. Soon, yeah?"

His eyes raked over Athos's face. He could see his friend's eyes moving beneath his lids, his lips slightly parted as he breathed steadily. But he suddenly felt very lonely in this white, sterile room and so he stood, pushing the chair back. It scraped along the floor and he flinched, before realising that Athos wouldn't notice.

"I just came back to say," he said, "With every hurt, Athos, with all that's 'appened to us, I know that there was not a minute that any of us ever thought of giving up. Heshima's our dream. It's been our salvation. With every sunrise, that dream's reborn."

He wiped his hand over his stinging eyes and walked to the door, before turning, his hand on the door handle;

"So come back, Athos. Heshima won't run itself. And I can't be without you."

With that, he opened the door and, head down, he quickly pushed past Aramis and walked down the corridor.

 **To be continued ...**


	38. Chapter 38

**CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT**

The two nurses Treville had called in came on duty and Aramis briefed them.

He finally got some rest, using the room next to d'Artagnan, because Treville and Porthos had both briefed them too.

Aramis didn't stand a chance against two nurses, one male, Anan, and one female, Femi and both formidable, when needed. They had taken one look at the dark shadows under Aramis's eyes and backed him into the room. Anan had closed the door and leaned on it, folding his arms and there commenced a staring contest for several minutes before Aramis gave in. In the corridor, Femi smiled, broadly.

The two were locals, both living in Maun; the nearest town to the Garrison. They came together in a flatbed truck, because they were married. It had worked perfectly that they worked in the local clinic and also did hours for Aramis, as and when needed. They had a good way with the Heshima tourists, bullying them into drinking plenty of water and being a source of wisdom with regard to what to eat and what to avoid. Aramis had been right, they both had a soft spot for Athos, though he suspected that Musket had something to do with it. The dog in question had spent his time sitting in the doorway of the infirmary, occasionally sitting up hopefully when someone approached, only to be denied access and sinking down with his head between his paws once more.

"Must be confusin' for 'im," Porthos had muttered to Treville. "I might take 'im for a visit to see Rach, when things 'ave settled down." _When Athos has woken up_.

oOo

Aramis appeared bleary-eyed but looking somewhat better a few hours later. d'Artagnan was due back in the OR in the early hours of the evening, when it was cooler. He shuffled off toward the main lodge and found Treville and Porthos in the kitchen. Both smiled when they saw him and he looked a little sheepishly at them.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I sometimes cannot seem to take my own advice."

"S'alright," Porthos growled affectionately, as he pulled the medic into a hug, to which Aramis submitted willingly. Treville smiled in the background.

"Are the ladies back yet?" he asked, looking around once he was released.

"On their way, just spoke to Nkosi," Porthos replied, omitting the word, _"again."_ "Told 'er to drive carefully. Athos ain't goin' nowhere."

Aramis folded his arms and leaned his back against the kitchen counter looking at his feet as Porthos began to rustle up some eggs.

"You ready for d'Artagnan?" Porthos asked, keeping his eyes on what he was doing.

Aramis took a deep breath and turned around to watch Porthos shimmying some butter in the pan.

"I will be," he said. "I've got a few hours yet. Just got to keep him quiet, but he's had enough medication."

"I can keep him company til then," Porthos offered, looking at Treville, who nodded. By necessity, things had been scaled back, though there were plenty of wardens doing the necessary tasks out in the field.

Just then there was a sound of tires on gravel and they all turned to look out of the window. It was Anne who was driving and she got out and slammed the door.

"Oops," Porthos muttered, as he watched them both walk toward the building.

Porthos was serving up food when they walked in. He put a plate of scrambled eggs in front of Aramis and they were all silent as he started to eat. After a few moments though, he sighed and pushed the plate away. Nkosi reached across the table and took hold of his hand.

"It's alright, Cheri," he murmured, in response. "It was just a little more complicated than I had hoped."

He raised his head and looked at her then, before visibly making an effort to lighten the mood;

"Luckily, I picked up a few new techniques at my latest medical conference."

She squeezed his hand.

She knew he was joking; Aramis was an excellent surgeon.

"Go sit with him," he smiled at her.

Nkosi looked at Anne, but she waved her hand dismissively at her.

"I am sure," she said, "he would rather see _your_ face when he opens his eyes than mine."

Beneath her bravado, Porthos detected a sadness and handed her a drink.

"Wanna go visit our vet?" he asked.

She looked up at him and he gave her a wink. In return, she raised an eyebrow. _Shades of Athos_ , he thought.

"Why not?" she replied. "He's easy on the eye."

Porthos laughed out loud.

She turned to look at Treville and gave him a brief tilt of her head.

"You wanted to see me. Where will I find you?" she asked him.

"My office," he replied, gently. "When you're ready."

Porthos held out his arm, giving her a small bow and her mouth twisted into a smile as she slipped her hand over it, and they both left the room.

Treville looked at Aramis, who was now smiling too as he watched them go.

"You'll have to give me _that_ story," Treville muttered, "But first, go back to bed for a few hours. Your domain is being well looked after."

Aramis finished up his plate of eggs before he gladly obeyed.

oOo

Ahead of Porthos and Anne, Nkosi walked quickly toward the infirmary, briefly crouching to scratch Musket's ear. Seeing he wasn't going to be able to follow, he laid back down again, carefully eyeing Porthos and Anne as they approached a little way off.

Nkosi pushed through the double doors and down the short corridor. Pausing outside the door, she rested her forehead on the glass, taking in the man beyond.

She had made numerous calls to Porthos while she was at the hotel, each time being patiently told that he was alright. Nothing had changed. Don't worry. Drive carefully. She could see for herself now that nothing had changed.

She gently opened the door and slipped inside. Walking to the basin, as she had been told to do, she washed her hands, staring at the tiles in front of her; afraid now that she was in the room, to turn around.

She could not really remember her white mother, Jayne, but she knew from Nyack, her father, that she had been wise. She knew what she would say to her now;

 _Kuwa binti jasiri_

Be brave, daughter.

So she took a deep breath and turned around. She looked at his face, and her heart twisted. She saw the bracelet on his wrist then and her eyes filled with tears that spilled down her face. She raised her hand and drew the flat of her palm swiftly across both of her cheeks but still the hot tears came.

"I am sorry, _upendo wango jasiri_ " (my brave love), she whispered. "I have been so very foolish."

oOo

Anne left Porthos after half an hour to make her way to Treville's office. d'Artgnan had been asleep, the male nurse had prepped him prior to surgery, and Porthos had been lost in thought as they both sat there. Finally she sighed and he turned to her.

"Sorry," he whispered, aware he had mostly ignored her.

"It's fine," she said. "I hope he'll be alright," she said quickly, in a low voice.

It was the first sign of true unguarded, genuine, heartfelt emotion for someone other than herself that he had heard from her. He had other words he could add to the list but she was looking at him with sad green eyes, some of her sharp edges worn down now, and all he could do was sigh.

"Better go and take my punishment," she forced a smile as she stood, the gap in her front teeth making her look vulnerable as she looked down at him.

He wanted to give her a hug but didn't think she would take it, but then he thought _what the hell_ , and stood up and pulled her to him in one movement; careful not to squeeze too hard. _That_ she wouldn't like.

"The Captain's bark's worse than 'is bite," he muttered as he stepped back, releasing her.

"I'm sure it is. I'm just tired of being bitten," she muttered.

"Come back?" he asked, holding her gaze.

"Sure," she said, but he wasn't sure she would. The shutters were coming down hard as she turned and walked toward the door. He thought she was going to turn and say something as she paused at the door, but she straightened her shoulders and pulled the door open and swept out, head held high.

She was some woman, Porthos thought. Hard to fathom. Secretive, damaged, and with walls that were quickly shored back up if breached. Where had he heard that before? He would have to talk to Athos about her sometime, he thought. Or, maybe not.

He returned and sat with d'Artagnan, and therefore didn't see Anne walk back past the door, to the one next door.

For the second time today she stood leaning on the wall, looking through the glass. This time, watching Nkosi sitting at Athos's bedside. She could see her tears. How easily they fell. How gently she held his hand. She even thought she heard her singing quietly.

It was hard to watch. So hard. She stepped back as cold realisation swept through her.

Watching them together, she knew she had made the right decision.

She had betrayed Koslov, in favour of Athos, her husband, who hadn't really done anything wrong. He had not mistreated her. He had just neglected her. Her time with Athos had passed. Now he was here in Africa, the culmination of his dreams. He had a new life. He just had to fight to return to it. She had yet to find her own dream; but she had hope that she could.

oOo

By the time she climbed the stairs to Treville's office, she was in control once more. Whatever he said to her, he could go to hell. She was sick of it all. If Athos had a new life, she had one too, and it was up to _her_ to fight for hers. A small part of her envied him, though. She had been a part of his small circle of friends for a while. She had fought them, fought with them, had felt the care they had for each other and had grown to grudgingly respect them. Now their Captain wanted to tear a strip off her because she had taken a truck and taken matters into her own hands when they were all dithering, as all men do!

By the time she reached his door, she had worked herself up into an unholy temper and almost threw it open, but he raised his head and _smiled_ at her.

And, confused, she deflated.

"You look tired," he said.

"This waiting is exhausting," she replied coolly.

"Yes, we have experience of that with him," Treville muttered. "The trouble with Athos … with all of them … is that they run head first into trouble."

"And then, of course, there was the murderous Russian," she added imperiously, stepping into the room.

"Yes, we have experience of that as well," he replied, sitting back in his chair.

"And the murderous Arab," she added, watching him as she walked slowly toward him.

"That _was_ a new one," Treville said, holding her gaze.

He motioned for her to take a seat and she did, graceful once more, though her manner remained cold.

"I only remember Athos sitting behind a dusty desk," she said, smoothing her skirt.

"I cannot believe that," Treville smiled.

"At the University," she explained.

"I meant about the desk being dusty," he murmured; the smile remaining.

She smiled briefly herself now, and he took the opportunity of the stalemate to lean forward and reach for the envelope that was propped in front of him; where it had sat since he had received it.

"This came for you a few days ago," he ventured, holding it out.

She took it as if it were on fire, between finger and thumb; a small frown marring her forehead.

"What is it?" she asked, looking at the formal looking envelope.

"It's sealed," he replied tersely, and she realised she had offended him.

"I'm used to all my correspondence being read before it reaches me," she said tartly, by way of explanation. "This is a new experience."

"It's from a legal firm in Paris, apparently," he replied, coolly.

"Michelin's law firm," she said quietly, turning it over and recognising the firm's distinctive stamp.

He handed her a letter opener in the shape of a slender stiletto. The thin blade glinted in her palm, as she curled her fingers around it.

She deftly slit the envelope open with a single thrust and extracted a sheet of white paper.

He watched as she read it.

And then she read it again, before raising her eyes and staring at him.

 **To be continued ...**


	39. Chapter 39

**CHAPTER THIRTY NINE**

 _He knew they were there._

 _He could detect light from dark._

 _He felt them; holding his hand, walking around the room._

 _He heard them, but could not distinguish their words._

 _He knew this time it was Aramis; always fiddling. He felt his fingers on his side, easing the dressing aside. It hurt. He wished he would stop. There was a bright light above him that corresponded to Aramis's ministrations; it went out when he stopped. The dull pull in his hand from one of those damned needles focussed his need to communicate ..._

 _He was just below the surface. It was like those times when he had swum beneath the surface of water and looked up at the light. If he could just reach up … If he could just surface ..._

 _He moved his hand and thought he felt the vertical struts of the tree house railings once more; he grasped one in his hand. As he did so, he felt the mattress beneath him suddenly morph into warm wood._

Aramis saw the moment that Athos's hand wrapped around one of the metal struts of the guardrail that ran the length of the automated bed. His mind went back to the tree house; his friend's limp hand hanging through the railings in the air above them.

"Athos?" he whispered, pulling back an eyelid and flashing his penlight into his eye.

 _In Athos's mind, the light flashed just as Koslov's gun went off and Athos flinched, bringing his arm up now._

Aramis grabbed his arm, looking around for help, but he was on his own so he dropped the guardrail on one side of the bed and sat on the edge, reaching over to grab Athos and save him from a possible fall whilst at the same time, allowing him to get hold of him by the shoulders and stop him trying to rise. That would put an unbearable strain on his stomach muscles, the internal stitches and external staples.

Athos was talking now, his voice raspy from the tube that had previously been lodged in his throat.

" _d'Artagnan. Protect. Roof. Up on the roof. Get him away."_

"Athos!" Aramis said, urgently. "It's Aramis! Open your eyes!"

But Athos was caught up in the past drama that had unfolded and it seemed that Aramis was getting an insight into all that had happened. _Athos_ had made d'Artagnan climb onto the roof, he realised; thereby saving his life from the rampaging gunman.

Aramis's heart was in his mouth now, as Athos's eyes opened.

But Athos was not seeing Aramis. He was seeing Koslov.

Behind him, Aramis heard the door suddenly open;

"What's goin' on?!" Porthos cried, as he came into the room, taking in the scene before him of Aramis struggling with Athos.

"Porthos!" Aramis cried, "Help me keep him still!"

Porthos rushed forward and moved quickly around to the other side of the bed and leant over, wary of putting too much pressure on Athos's arm, but also aware of the need to stop him moving around so erratically.

" _Keep him away,"_ Athos was saying _. "Keep him away from d'Artagnan."_

Athos seemed to be replaying the steps had taken when he came face to face with Koslov.

"Can't you give him something?" Porthos shot across the bed to Aramis.

"I'd rather not," Aramis replied tersely, "Just keep him from damaging himself!"

" _Unhook trapdoor ..."_

Aramis cast a look at Porthos, as they continued to struggle with their friend.

Athos was now twisting his head from side to side. It seemed to Porthos that he was wary of lying there; that he wanted to shift onto his side. But they held him fast and he was tiring now.

" _Where is he?"_ Athos muttered, as he looked down on either side of him.

"He's dead, Athos. Koslov is dead!" Aramis said urgently. "He fell through the trap door and was impaled on the fence."

"He thinks he's back on the walkway," Porthos said, suddenly realising what the movements meant.

"And Koslov is beneath him," Aramis added, as he stared at Porthos.

"He's waitin' for 'im to shoot. Didn't know he was dead."

"What do we do?" Aramis said.

But before they could gather themselves, Athos was suddenly still. The urgency of whatever he was seeing had ended. Aramis let go of his hand tentatively.

They watched as Athos reached for the imaginary railings to his left once more. He turned his head and watched as his arm fell through the space between two of the metal struts of the guardrail and dropped over the side of the bed, his hand coming to rest in mid air.

And then, his eyes closed and he was still.

"So that's what happened," Aramis said quietly, as he pushed himself to his feet and looked down.

Athos was lying in exactly the same position as they had found him in on the walkway.

"Was that a dream?" Porthos asked, breathing heavily.

"No," Aramis sighed. "Hopefully, it was an exorcism."

oOo

Unaware of what had been happening in Athos's room, Treville read the letter that Anne passed to him.

Carefully schooling his features, he folded it and handed it back to her.

"I don't understand," she said, staring at him.

"I didn't know what was in the letter," he confirmed, "But I know the background. Some weeks ago, instructions were sent to Michelin Barout's solicitors. They were instructed to a safety deposit box in a Swiss bank. Your case was closed as far as the police are concerned but what they found caused an unholy stink, to put it mildly. That letter," he said, "is the result, in terms of your case. My contact forwarded it here."

"Who sent the instructions to her solicitors?" she asked.

"No-one seems to know. Or if they do, they're not saying," Treville replied.

"How did your contact know I was here?" she demanded.

"When you arrived, we checked you out, of course," Treville replied. "Did you expect we would not?"

"No, I suppose not," she replied. "And what did you find?"

"Nothing that you didn't tell us and that was not in the transcript of your trial," he replied. "But now it's hit the fan, there is some evidence that the police did not do their job correctly."

Her head shot up.

"How?"

"According to my source, there were fingerprints on the handle of the weapon you held," he said. "But not, on the trigger. That evidence was not submitted. It seems, the police wanted the wrap it up quickly and you were a gift."

"A gift," she muttered angrily.

"Much better a scorned lover than a criminal underworld getting out of hand in an exclusive part of Paris," he said.

"There has always been a criminal underworld in Paris," she replied acidly.

"All the better to clear a sordid crime up and squash all possible consequences. Thomas de la Fere was his own worst enemy and he paid the ultimate price. His enemies were satisfied and your arrest allowed them to disappear, undetected."

She was grasping the envelope tightly now.

"But Koslov blackmailed Michelin," she said.

"And they are both dead," Treville replied instantly.

"But," he added. "If it helps, there is no criminality involved in Mademoiselle Barout's past. Merely a matter of honour, which apparently meant more to her. It will not be made public.

"You are free, Anne," Treville added. "And you owe that freedom to Ms Barout."

"I don't understand. I'm free now," she replied.

"Not _legally_ ," he replied. "You said yourself, Koslov forced Ms Barout to forge a DNA sample in order to obtain your release. There was always the possibility that that would be discovered and you would be back in court to answer some difficult questions. I spoke to my contact at length this morning, prior to giving you this. Michelin organised some "insurance." She left instructions in the event of her untimely death; a new sample of your DNA. She must have known she was at risk. She took a sample from you at some point in your acquaintance and sealed it away. On her death, it was to be submitted. It proves your innocence. And in that, it wipes out the false submission."

"A new sample?"

"Easily obtainable. From a drinking glass, for example, taken from the prison after a meeting with you. In this case, it was a lipstick, apparently."

Anne frowned as she absorbed the information.

She remembered complaining about having used up her customary red lipstick. The young woman had leant her her own, under the guard's nose. That's what she had liked about Michelin, she did not worry about breaking the odd small rule and she understood that for some women, their need for the comfort of cosmetics in such a sharsh environment was all they had. She had promised she would bring her a new one at her next visit, which she did; both the colour and make her favourite.

Treville waved his hand at the letter, breaking her from her thoughts.

"This exonerates you."

Anne raised her head;

"She couldn't have submitted it before," she said softly. "She waited until he killed her," Anne said softly.

"She was a remarkable young woman," Treville said. "She could not better Koslov in life, but she did so in death. Along with this evidence," he added, "She had taken a covert picture of him. It's a pity he's dead, or he would pay for his crime. Her family would have justice."

"I will always remember what she did for me," Anne said.

Treville was silent for a few moments, glad he had not told her that Michelin had also left evidence that Koslov had raped her; that she must have been terrified of him. Anne did not need to take that memory with her.

"What will you do now?" he asked. "Take the money and run?"

"Money?" she frowned.

"Compensation for six years imprisonment with insufficient evidence. As I said, the police wanted a quick result, and you were it."

"Your record is clear," he added.

She looked at him coyly and smirked, "Well, I wouldn't say that, completely."

"Don't tell me any more," he growled.

"Minor misdemeanours," she murmured. Standing, she gave him a grateful look.

"Thank you, Captain Treville," she said, holding out her hand.

"I've done nothing," he replied, taking it. "She obviously has friends out there."

Anne nodded. It was a comforting thought.

"There's someone I need to talk to," she said, slotting the letter back into the envelope.

"Yes, he will need to know," Treville said.

"Not Athos," she replied, turning and sweeping from the room.

oOo

It had been distressing, but Aramis had to pull himself together. He was due in the OR to help d'Artagnan within the hour.

In a way, he felt hopeful that Athos had banished the remnants of his experience in the tree house. It was the first real reaction they had seen in him. As distressing as it had been to experience the "reconstruction," of both his friend's desperate fight, he hoped the episode would be the end of it for Athos. It remained to be seen how d'Artagnan fared, having fired a poisoned arrow into a man's chest.

He exchanged a look with Porthos, who was looking angry on his friend's behalf.

"Glad Nkosi wasn't 'ere to see that," Porthos grunted, catching his expression.

At that moment, Anne appeared in the doorway, looking for Porthos.

"See _what_?" she asked. "What's happened?"

"Just a reaction to the medication," Aramis replied quickly, pulling the sheets straight.

Anne walked up to the monitor, bypassing Aramis and studying the display.

She turned and gave Aramis a withering look which left him in no doubt that she did not believe him, nor liked being lied to. If it was a reaction, Aramis did not seem to be doing anything to rectify it. But she did not argue; whatever it was, Athos was quiet. Leaning forward, she trailed her fingers along Athos's arm. It was so tender that Aramis turned away, busying himself once more with straightening the sheets.

She looked across at Porthos then and he saw she had a letter in her hand.

"Something 'appened?" he asked her.

"You could say that," she replied; her face unreadable.

With a last glance at Athos and with a tilt of her head, she indicated she would like Porthos to follow her, before she turned and left the room.

"I think you've been summoned," Aramis said, pushing his hair from his eyes.

"I think I 'ave," Porthos replied, though he hesitated.

"Don't make her angry, my friend," Aramis huffed. "I'll ask Anan to keep an eye on Athos. I'm wanted in the OR."

"If you're sure ..." Porthos muttered, still reluctant to leave his friend.

"Absolutely. d'Artagnan's waiting. Femi is going to assist."

Porthos squeezed Aramis's shoulder.

"You'll let me know when you're done?" he said.

"Yes, of course," Aramis smiled.

Porthos walked to the door, aware of not wanting to keep Anne waiting, but also, curiously aware that he was obeying her silent instruction to follow her. When did _that_ happen, he thought, shaking his head, as he went in search of her.

 **To be continued ...**


	40. Chapter 40

**CHAPTER FORTY**

Porthos found Anne outside, sitting on the verandah. Musket was sitting beside her. It was a bizarre sight but after the flare of anger she had shown Aramis, she was looking thoughtful.

"Didn't think you liked dogs," he said, as he sat down next to her.

"I don't," she sneered.

Musket sat up and looked at her and she met the dog's gaze with a glare. His jaws parted then and his tongue rolled out of his mouth as his head tipped to one side as he studied her. She quickly looked away to hide the small smile that played on her lips.

Porthos fell short of telling her that Musket seemed to like _her_. She would no doubt say the dog liked anyone who gave him any attention. He was still trying to work her out, but by now, he knew which buttons not to press.

"Well," Porthos said, lowering himself from the chair down onto the floor next to her chair with a weary sigh before reaching over and scratching Musket's ear, "He's not so bad, this one, when you get to know 'im."

He wondered if he'd said the wrong thing when she visibly stiffened

"I've no time for that," she replied tightly. "I have a plane to organise."

"Say what?" Porthos asked, surprised by the turn of events and what seemed like a sudden decision.

"Well, I can't hang around here," she snapped, not meeting his eyes.

"You're leavin'?" he said, surprised, and not a little angry that she was contemplating leaving when Athos was still unconscious and d'Artagnan was at that very moment in the OR.

She did not meet his eyes, nor reply.

They both sat in silence. In a few hours, the sun would drown gloriously in the horizon, but as yet, they had a few hours as the land bore its pale golden rays. Porthos loved this time. It was a time for contemplation. Often, when they finished their work, they would gather around the fire pit and watch as night fell, the stars at first twinkling against a darkening sky, before really coming into their glorious own; shining as bright as diamonds on black velvet. He suddenly found his eyes were stinging. The thought of his brothers enjoying a simple pleasure together was suddenly overwhelming.

With great effort, he tucked the memory carefully away and turned to look at her profile.

"So, what's 'appened?" he said, keeping his voice neutral.

In response, without turning to look at him, she handed over the letter she had been clutching since he had last seen her.

Reading it, he sucked in his breath.

"Bloody hell," he said, as he finished.

After a few moments of staring at the letter in his hand, he cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, softly.

She turned to him with a quizzical expression and he handed it back to her.

"I'm sorry that I didn't believe you," he finished softly.

She gave what could only be described as a bitter laugh, taking the letter back and scanning it again. Tilting her head against the chair back and closing her eyes, she blew out a deep breath and seemed to relax.

"Don't be," she said, before turning to look at him properly and smiling, "I probably wouldn't have believed me either."

The gap between her front teeth seemed quite endearing when she smiled he thought, and he smiled back, before a look of curiosity crossed his face;

"So, what will you do now?"

"Get a new barrister," she replied instantly. "To review the original conviction. Your Captain tells me there is some doubt about the police's investigation. Certain evidence was not submitted."

"Yeah?" he said, waiting for her to elaborate.

"Hmm," she replied. "Hard to believe, isn't it?"

Growing up, they had both experienced skirmishes with the law, but if this was right, and he had no reason to doubt Treville's information, this was on a whole new level. He was touched that she had sought him out to tell him.

"Compensation?" he asked, tentatively.

She glared at him, before attempting a nonchalant shrug and didn't quite come off; which made him laugh out loud.

"I would damn-well hope so," she said indignantly. "I'm going to have to start again. I'll probably change my name."

"Divorce?" Porthos ventured.

She went very quiet, chewing at her bottom lip. After a few moments she took a deep breath and settled.

"Don't worry," she said, quietly. "I can see what he has in Nkosi." _We were like that once, her heart said._

She suddenly stood up and held out the letter.

"Will _you_ tell him?" she asked.

"What?" he blustered, looking up at her in confusion.

She looked unsure of herself and took a step back.

Porthos protested but she turned away. "I have a plane to organise," she repeated firmly.

It was getting a little darker now; the only sound were a few heavy-bodied moths that were beginning to bounce off the lights above them.

"You can't just go without tellin' 'im!" Porthos replied. "After all these years of uncertainty, this cleans it up for both of you!"

But she rounded on him angrily.

"He'll just think I'm making it up!" she hissed.

He grabbed her arm, but she shook him off angrily and turned her back on him.

Suddenly, he saw it.

She couldn't bear to face Athos.

For all her attitude, all her sass - to tell him to his face, after all this time, that she had been telling the truth all along was too much. To tell him his brother _was_ the man she had described in court.

And to know that to have that moment of triumph she had probably dreamed about for the last six years would come at a terrible price. To him. A price she now seemed unwilling to take.

He spun her around and enveloped her in a hug. It almost broke her heart.

"You did good, Anne," he murmured, as he released her. "But this is between you and Athos. It's for you to tell him."

He could see her face crumple. He understood that it would mean she would have to stay until Athos woke. That she would have to shore up her defences once more. And it would mean she would remain an outsider for a little longer; any dream of a new life suspended.

If he had known her a little better, he would have seen that she was not only sad. She was fearful.

Fearful that Athos may not wake.

oOo

In the OR, Aramis had finished putting three long rows of neat sutures into the back of d'Artagnan's thigh. It had gone well. The result was a wound that had not needed a skin graft. If d'Artagnan took care, it would remain that way. As Femi tidied up, Annan helped Aramis manoeuvre d'Artagnan onto a stretcher and together they took him back to his room. d'Artagnan was already showing signs of waking, and once he was made comfortable, Femi settled down to monitor him while Aramis went in search of Porthos.

He found him in the kitchen, where he assured him that the worst was behind d'Artagnan and that he would probably be awake in a few hours.

"It's almost over," Aramis said, wearily.

"Just need Athos to come back to us," Porthos agreed.

"What is it?" Aramis asked, seeing Porthos deep in thought.

It was not for Porthos to tell Aramis that Anne had been proved innocent. It would hopefully become common knowledge soon. Treville knew of course, but again, he would wait until Anne was able to have the conversation with Athos.

"Just Anne," Porthos said, simply. "And Athos. It's complicated."

Aramis, ever tactful, took no offence. Instead, he sat down heavily on the sofa and closed his eyes.

"When is it not with that one?" he replied, no doubt reminded of the glare she had given him in Athos's room earlier.

"Yeah," Porthos laughed. "The air does crackle a bit when she's around, doesn't it?"

"So where is everyone?" Aramis sighed, his eyes still closed.

"Treville's in his office. He spent some time with Athos. Nkosi is with Athos now," he replied.

"That's good," Aramis said. "How is she?"

"She's good," Porthos said. "Last time I looked, she was singing to 'im."

"I'll go and give the Captain an update on his Vet," Aramis said, pulling himself to his feet. "I may be gone some time."

Porthos laughed. "Yeah, he did mention a bottle of brandy was waitin' when you'd finished."

"Excellent. What are you going to do now?"

"I'll go and see our young friend, and then I'll check in on Nkosi," Porthos replied.

Aramis embraced him, kissing him briefly on the cheek.

"Annan and Femi and due off soon. You know where I am," he said, fondly.

"Easy on that brandy," Porthos growled.

"Only one, my friend," Aramis replied, as they parted.

oOo

Femi had done a good job in making d'Artagnan comfortable. Porthos tapped lightly on the door and was met by a comforting sight as she helped d'Artagnan to a drink of water, before fluffing his pillows up. Catching sight of Porthos, she pressed the remote which raised the top end of the bed slightly so that d'Artagnan was raised up and could see the room, instead of the ceiling.

He looked groggy, but his colour was good. His long hair was tucked behind his ears, and there were no lines, tubes or wires to mar the peaceful scene.

"Hey," Porthos said quietly, creeping forward and sitting on the opposite side of the bed to Femi.

She put the remote under d'Artagnan's hand and signalled that she would leave them alone, walking quietly to the door.

"Thanks, Femi," Porthos said as she slipped outside.

" _Karibu_ ," she whispered. (You're welcome)

Once she had gone, Porthos moved to the other side of the bed and picked up the glass of water.

He held it up and d'Artaganan nodded. After a few sips, Porthos took it away and leant forward.

"How you feelin'?"

"Like I've been asleep for a week," d'Artagnan murmured.

"Well, three days, anyway," Porthos said. "Seems longer."

d'Artagnan was watching him.

"Aramis says you'll be fine, as long as you don't pull those stitches out," Porthos started to say but was interrupted;

"How is he?"

"He's bein' well looked after," Porthos replied.

" _Porthos,_ " d'Artagnan said, tightly.

So Porthos told him. He told him how they had all taken turns sitting with Athos. That he had had an "episode," where he had relived what had happened in the tree-house, and which had revealed both their roles in the shoot-out. He told him Anne was still here, and that at the moment, Nkosi was sitting with him. Then he asked d'Artagnan how he felt, as when he had spoken to him yesterday, he was upset that he had thought he had killed a man in a barbaric way.

d'Artagnan had listened carefully, his hand tightening in the sheet, and then he had looked up at Porthos and told him he was alright;

"Don't worry about me," he had replied. "I've put a few sick animals down in my time."

And Porthos knew he would be alright.

oOo

Porthos left d'Artagnan with a promise that he would return soon and spend the evening with him. It was dark now and he doubted d'Artagnan would last long before he was fast asleep. Porthos was going nowhere though, he would remain in the building, keeping watch. Aramis would turn up at some point, with perhaps their Captain in tow. There were several chairs arranged in Athos's room now, enough for them all.

Looking through the glass in the door of Athos's room, Porthos could see that Nkosi was holding Athos's hand, but her head was resting on her other arm which was folded on the mattress. Her eyes were closed and he wondered if he should interrupt, but at that moment, she must have sensed him and she raised her head quickly and beckoned him in.

"Just been with d'Artagnan. He's doin' fine," he whispered as he took his place opposite her.

"What about this one?" he said, his eyes roaming over his friend's face.

"He's been dreaming!" she whispered, her eyes bright. "I've been watching his eyes move beneath his eyelids," she smiled.

"That's good isn't it?" she asked, taking Athos's hand in both of hers and staring earnestly at Porthos.

"Depends what 'e's thinkin'" Porthos smiled at her. "Might be plannin' all sorts of things," he grunted.

She reached over for his hand and Porthos took it, his bottom lip quivering.

"He is _planning_ on coming back to us," she announced, firmly. "We are his family."

From what he had learned from Anne that afternoon, Nkosi's thought was comforting. No longer adrift, Athos had found his family.

Porthos got up and walked to the door where he switched on the low overhead light. Then, he went to the window and quietly dropped the blind. He squeezed Nkosi's shoulder on the way back to his seat, which he dropped onto.

At some point, he closed his eyes.

oOo

Sound filtered in.

One odd sound, which Athos eventually recognised as deep, uneven breathing. He wanted to smile, as there was only one person who snored like that. Other, more distant sounds drifted in and out, though he could not distinguish between them.

His closed eyelids reflected yellow light. He lay there listening to the sounds around him, before slowly raising his lids. Strips of light filtered in and he slammed them shut against the sudden brightness.

Not quickly enough, though, as he heard Nkosi's voice.

"Porthos! He's waking up!"

A groan, and then an exclamation, as a chair was scraped back.

His right hand was raised, quickly followed by his left. When he finally managed to hold his eyes open, he found himself on his back, with both hands being held in the air, the left by Nkosi and the right by Porthos.

He turned his head to the left.

Nkosi leaned in and smiled.

She was so beautiful, his heart hitched in his chest.

He knew his lips were trying to work to tell them he was alright as they both looked frightened, but no words came out. So he did the only thing he could.

He squeezed their hands.

Above him, Porthos and Nkosi looked at each other and started to laugh.

They were rewarded with a brief smile, before his eyes slipped shut once more, and he slept.

They gently lowered his hands and Nkosi walked around to Porthos and stepped into his arms.

She was aware her tears were soaking his t shirt, but she didn't care.

And neither, did he.

 **To be continued ...**


	41. Chapter 41

So, we come to the last chapter, which is a long one, but there is much to be said. I hope you have enjoyed this sequel. Many thanks for the reviews and messages, and to those I cannot thank personally.

oOo

 **CHAPTER FORTY ONE**

In the pre-dawn silence, Athos opened his eyes.

At first he thought he was alone in the room but then he saw the still figure of Aramis at the end of the bed, looking out of the window, his back to him.

Feeling himself being watched, Aramis turned his head and looked at him. He turned fully and leant back on the windowsill, watching as Athos slowly blinked himself awake. It took a little while, and in that time, Aramis assessed him. Athos's eyes flicked around the room and when he finally raised his hand to swipe at the nasal tube, Aramis was ready. He moved forward and took hold of his hand, gently pulling it away.

"Easy," he said. "Be still, just get your bearings."

Athos looked up at him and frowned, but did not struggle.

His face softened and Aramis smiled, still holding his hand.

"Hey," he murmured.

"Hey," Athos managed.

Aramis sank down onto the chair Nkosi had used throughout the night, until Porthos had steered her out for food and a rest. She had tried to resist of course, but Porthos had threatened to tip her over his shoulder and carry her out. She had looked to Aramis for help but he had shrugged, and she was left with little choice. That was only an hour ago. She would be very put out when she found out that Athos had indeed woken up while she was gone.

Treville had taken Anne back to the hotel, with a promise to let her know when Athos was awake and well enough to hear what she had to say. He had not yet returned. She had looked troubled, and Aramis suspected that Treville was offering her some sort of support.

"Do you remember what happened?" Aramis asked, gently.

Athos looked blank, but Aramis could see flashes of realisation flick begin to across his face.

"You brought me back," he finally ventured. "You brought us both back."

"And what a journey that was," Aramis agreed. "You shaved a few years from my life, my friend," he added. "And not for the first time."

Athos licked his lips and frowned.

"Sorry," he murmured.

"I suppose you want an update," Aramis smiled, running his hand thoughtfully through his beard.

Athos lifted his head and looked around, wincing at the sudden dull pain in his side.

"Easy," Aramis repeated quickly, resting a hand firmly on his shoulder to keep him still.

"Can I sit up?" Athos managed, his voice wrecked from the endotracheal tube that had been lodged in his throat during his surgery.

"No," Aramis said bluntly. "Major trauma, Athos. You know the drill."

Athos sighed and stared blankly at the ceiling but they both knew that he was not in a position to argue.

"d'Artagnan?" he asked after a few moments, becoming a little agitated as his thoughts started to clear.

"He's good," Aramis assured him. "Porthos has been keeping him in his bed. He wants to visit."

"And," he added, "Your ladies are somewhere around. No doubt they will both want to be in here now you are awake."

"Advisable?" Athos asked, sceptically.

Aramis laughed at the first sign of Athos's sardonic humour.

"More so now than when they first met," he replied. "It's a long, complicated story."

Athos was looking tired now, and Aramis patted his hand and stood;

"Let me get you free of all this equipment and make you comfortable, and then, if you wish, Porthos can fill you in. He had quite an adventure after I brought you and d'Artagnan back here."

Athos raised his hand, and Aramis stopped and took hold; looking at him fondly;

"It's good to see you, Athos," he said.

"You, too, Aramis." Athos said.

oOo

A little later, with Athos now propped up on a few more pillows and the end of the bed slightly raised, as a minor concession by Aramis, Porthos opened the door and stuck his head in.

Nothing was said, they just looked at each other for a beat, before Athos raised his hand and waved him in with a smile.

Porthos took a deep breath and came forward.

He leant over and kissed Athos on the forehead.

"You run to the edge of the wire, Athos," he growled. "And then you jump off."

Athos looked at him, carefully judging his mood.

"Well, to be fair," he replied. "I didn't start it."

Porthos suddenly started to laugh. It started off as a low rumble and then his shoulders shook and tears leaked from his eyes.

Athos watched him in amusement.

"Only _you_ could make a clash with a murderous gun-totin' Russian criminal sound like an argument in the playground."

Porthos stopped laughing then and wiped his eyes.

"d'Artagnan nailed Koslov," he said, proudly.

"So I understand," Athos smirked.

"You saw him do it?"

Athos slowly nodded. Over the last half hour, his thoughts had cleared considerably, although there were still gaps.

"It was over very fast," he replied. "I tripped the trap door. Wasn't sure I'd got it right, but he stood on it, rather than walk over it and it didn't bear his weight. Aramis tells me he was impaled on the fence. I didn't know he was dead then. I fully expected him to start shooting from beneath me."

"Must 'ave been a moment."

"Now who's the Master of Understatement!" Athos smiled.

"Touche," Porthos smiled back. "Glad you're back, mate."

"So am I," Athos murmured, before he asked more questions;

"And Naaji?"

"Well, that's a tale for Nkosi to tell you. Her brother's 'ave been amazin'."

"And Anne?" Athos asked, cautiously.

"She's here," Porthos nodded, carefully. "Got somethin' to tell you."

"Has she?"

"Yeah. Give her a hearin' Athos. She played her part too."

Athos remembered the shock of seeing Anne, as flashes of her sudden appearance in the Delta came to him. And then, of her giving him the gun. For years, he had tried to consign her to the back of his mind, but recently, since news had reached hm of her release, it had felt as if she was in every shadow. Then, he remembered her handing him the gun and the confusion that had caused. He could not remember their conversation though.

Perhaps he needed to hear it again, if that was what she wanted.

"Alright," Athos agreed. He desperately wanted to see Nkosi but he was growing tired now. Porthos picked up on that instantly and squeezed his hand.

"Enough now," he said, his voice a low rumble and pleasantly soothing. "Rest up. We'll all be here when you wake up."

He plucked at the hospital gown Athos was wearing, and chuckled.

"I'll bring you some t shirts," he said. "And then, Aramis says you've got a protein shake to look forward to."

He laughed again at the grimace that particular piece of information elicited.

oOo

They weren't all there when he woke up. Just d'Artagnan, sitting on a chair, crutches propped up beside him and his leg on a low stool. Sensing someone to his right, Athos turned his head. The last time he remembered seeing him was when he had pushed him up onto the roof of the tree house.

"You look better," Athos said, his voice still hoarse.

d'Artagnan raised his eyebrow and smirked. "So do you," he smiled. "How do you feel?"

Athos thought for a moment.

"Too soon to tell," Athos grunted, "I don't think the truck has rolled off me yet."

d'Artagnan broke into a wide grin. "I know what you mean."

"It was one hell of a trip, though," Athos said, watching him; assessing him.

When d'Artagnan didn't reply, he reached out and put his hand on his arm and d'Artagnan looked up at him plaintively;

"I'm sorry," he said, locking eyes with Athos.

"Why?" Athos asked, squeezing his arm.

"I distracted you."

"How so?"

"On the tree house walkway. We were talking and I asked you what you were thinking, and we took our eye off the ball."

Athos thought for a moments, before remembering he had been thinking about Nkosi.

"I don't accept your apology," Athos said flatly.

d'Artagnan hung his head.

"Because," Athos continued, "an apology is not needed. We were both at fault. We knew Koslov was nearby. Should have been more careful."

d'Artagnan lifted his head and stared at Athos.

"It was just so good to be back in the Delta," d'Artagnan sighed. "For a moment, it seemed … _normal_ , to be in the tree house, talking about our lives."

"And here we are," Athos smiled. "Back to normality."

"Yes," d'Artagnan replied softly. "Thank you, Athos."

Athos sighed.

"For what?"

"For e _verything_ ," d'Artagnan replied, fiercely. "For putting my shoulder back, for getting us to the San people. For explaining about them and making our stay so interesting, and … _wonderful._ For knowing what to do. For your company. For distracting Koslov ..."

Athos held up his hand.

"Enough," he said. "Do you not think you did the same for me?"

"But I couldn't have survived without you, Athos," d'Artagnan replied.

"Yes, you could. We worked together and survived Koslov last year, and now we've survived him again. And he is dead. We are alike, d'Artagnan. More than you know."

d'Artagnan did not look convinced. In fact, he looked incredulous.

Athos smiled, wearily.

"Believe me, d'Artagnan. You acquitted yourself magnificently," he said.

Seeing Athos was sincere, d'Artagnan beamed at him.

Only to groan when Athos added, "For a vet."

oOo

The least taxing visit was from Musket, led in by Porthos. Musket was overjoyed to be reunited with his master, and it took all of Porthos's strength to hold him back. In the end, he was allowed to put his front paws on the bed, as Porthos kept his hand on the collar that Rach had made for him.

Musket had always made strange sounds, having no feedback due to his deafness, but he excelled himself during his visit. Porthos told Athos the part his dog had played in their adventure and as Athos listened, he could see that Porthos seemed to have formed a genuine liking for the animal. It made him heart soar to see his two best friends in tune at last. After a few minutes, Porthos took him out, but the dog's tail was swishing from side to side as he went and Porthos was grinning from ear to ear.

oOo

"Sorry about the plane."

Treville let a slow smile spread across his face.

"So you should be," he growled.

"It was all I could think of," Athos added.

"You could have killed yourself."

"I did consider that."

"But you made a calculated decision."

"No," Athos said, pursing his lips. "I just pointed the stick down and closed my eyes."

Treville had stayed with Anne at the hotel, and had returned when Porthos phoned to say Athos was awake and was expecting her visit at some point. Treville had duly brought her back with him. He had spent the best part of an hour persuading her not to leave and finally, she had agreed to return with him.

"Give him some credit, Anne," Treville had said. "He may surprise you."

She had huffed at that and had made a sarcastic comment and he had rounded on her and told her that Athos had been in a prison of his own making until they had set up Heshima. She had totally blind sided him and he had lost everything he had held dear.

"You owe each other this final meeting," he had said. "After this, you never have to see each other again, but thereafter, there will be no more guilt, or doubt. No more recriminations. And from what Porthos tells me, you have begun that journey, Anne. You were part of their team. Don't turn away now. You and he are both as stubborn as each other, but you cannot deny you helped to save Athos and d'Artagnan. You need to explain that, at least. Not only to Athos, but to yourself."

"I, for one," he added, "have seen a change in you since your return."

She had looked at him sharply.

"And don't give me that look," he had said, "I like the change. It suits you."

And so, although she had glared at him, she had swept past him and out to the truck.

Behind her, he had shaken his head and smiled broadly.

It still took all her courage to walk into the room.

"Hello, Athos," she said.

"Hello, Anne," he had replied, softly.

There was a lot to explain. She had previously briefly told Athos about her connection to Koslov when they had met in the Delta, but there had not been time to elaborate. Before she told him of her innocence, she therefore wanted to straighten a few things out.

"Porthos told me Michelin was murdered in her apartment. Koslov killed Michelin, Athos. She was the only person who believed me," Anne said. "He put her in an impossible position, and then he killed her."

"What impossible position?" Athos asked.

"He forced her to submit false DNA of my innocence, so the Parole Board would free me."

"So what is the problem? Apart from fraud," he asked, not understanding why she would object.

"She left a note. It was sent to her solicitors after her death. She implicated Koslov and admitted that the DNA submitted to the Parole Board was false, but she had obtained a new sample and asked for it to be analysed. She had obtained it from a lipstick during one of our meetings."

Athos frowned, his face a mask of confusion.

"I am innocent Athos. I did not kill Thomas. My DNA proves it. Thank God for scientific advancement," she laughed, without humour.

Athos was staring at her.

"I don't understand."

"It's simple, dear husband. Thomas was not a nice man. He ran with some very violent people. One of them must have killed him. I was the unfortunate one who found him. All set up of course, to incriminate me. I handled the gun, but my DNA was nowhere near the trigger. And neither, it seemed were my fingerprints. Innocent on both accounts."

"Why did your barrister help Koslov get you out?"

"The original evidence was strong," she shrugged. "They would not have let me go and he needed me. He didn't know I knew as little as I did, of course. Michelin had a misdemeanour in her past. She was very young and just starting out at the time but if it had come to light, she would have been discredited. Koslov exploited that fact and made her help him. Because she believed me and she was getting me out, I suppose it did not seem such a bad thing to do. It's not as if I'm a killer after all.

"She was obviously frightened of him though. Perhaps she realised he would kill her and so she left instructions to be sent in ample time for him to show his hand. In other words, she waited until he had killed her."

"I perhaps did deserve some of my sentence. I did some dodgy things," she added. "But I never hurt anyone. Not like they charged me with."

"My God," Athos groaned.

"I spent a lot of time hating you, Athos," she said. "I don't know what I was expecting when I came here. I don't know what I wanted. But, I didn't think I would be jealous of you. You've made a new life. I want to do that. Somewhere. You have friends who care for you. Very much. I doubt I will ever have that. Don't neglect them, as you did me. Don't ever take them for granted," she said.

Athos was staring at her with those damned eyes, and she was faltering. She had one more thing to say.

"Don't neglect her, Athos. You'll be legally free of me soon. Give her everything."

He still didn't speak, but he tilted his head. It was his promise.

"What will you do now?" he finally managed to ask.

"I have plans," she answered.

"So do I," he conceded.

He reached out his hand. She stared at it. She lifted her head and looked at him. There would always be something between them but it belonged in a different time and a different place. They were different people now, barely on the same level. They both knew that. So, for one brief, last moment, they connected as she took his hand.

oOo

Finally, finally, he had Nkosi to himself.

She had been there, but he had so many others to reconnect to, so much to clear up and after seeing Anne, he had been lost in thought. Nkosi had been the first one he had seen when he had first woken up, and that had been their moment. She had been in the background since, deferring to Aramis over his care and Porthos, who had needed to be reassured that his friend was well.

There was an awkwardness between them. They had fallen out over his revelation that he and Anne had not divorced, and then been torn apart by the drama that had slowly unfolded. Now, their eyes met but no words were spoken, still.

Anne had gone, after telling them her news. Porthos and Treville had both been privy to her revelation, but she and Aramis had been shocked. Porthos had suggested she give Athos time to absorb what Anne had told him, and she had, until d'Artagnan had told her that it was she they were talking about when they had been caught out by Koslov. Athos's last thoughts before engaging with Koslov had been about her. He had then told her time was short, and he had asked her gently what her mother would say.

It was then that she had remembered what her mother had told her when she was a little girl;

" _To love at first sight is a wonder, daughter; to live in that love is truly a blessing."_

She had kissed d'Artagnan and headed straight to Athos.

Only to find him asleep.

Undeterred, she had sat down and started to sing a song. It was her way of coping and she loved to sing.

After a while, a quiet, oh so familiar voice interrupted her;

"That is not the sad song you sang to me last year," Athos whispered.

"You remember that?" she asked, wide eyes searching his face.

"I do," he replied. "I remember I pretended to be asleep," he replied.

She laughed. "Why?"

"I did not want to embarrass you," he said. "And you seemed so sad."

"I thought you were dying," Nkosi whispered.

"Well, then, a sad song was probably appropriate. My apologies."

He reached out his hand.

She looked at it.

His arm began to shake and he began to drop his hand, but she suddenly seized it in both of hers.

"Athos," she breathed. "Oba said I have been foolish."

"He is a very wise man," Athos smiled, aiming for humour. "He will make an excellent elder one day."

She looked down.

"But he is wrong in this," he added. "You were not foolish. You were right, and I am sorry I did not tell you the full story about my marriage."

He looked at their intertwined fingers.

"I had shut it from my mind," he began to explain.

"I knew how much it hurt you," Nkosi interrupted. "I heard your dreams last year. We thought we were losing you. We should have known you would bury this deeply. My father has a saying, ..."

It was Athos's turn to her …

"And what do _you_ say?" he asked, gazing into her beautiful eyes.

"I say … I love you, Athos," she replied.

"That is the best saying I have ever heard," he smiled.

oOo

 **Later that day:**

d'Artagnan came barrelling into his room in a wheelchair.

"Freedom!" he shouted.

"Is that the one I used last year?" Athos said.

"Aramis kept it, despite you wanting to throw it in the lake," d'Artagnan replied with glee.

"Well, I suppose such things are useful sometimes," Athos conceded, watching d'Artagnan run it in circles and dip it backward, balanced on its wheels.

"Though I doubt they are meant to do those kinds of maneouvre," he added.

d'Artagnan dropped the chair back down to the ground again and wheeled himself across, resting his elbows on the arms and leaning forward.

"So, Anne has gone, then?" he asked.

"This morning. Porthos took her to the airport. Luckily, we have the use of a hired plane and a pilot until the insurance pays out."

"I never really got to know her, but Porthos said she was nice," d'Artagnan ventured.

"Did he?" Athos said, surprised by that statement.

"Hated her at first," d'Artagnan said, "But he said she came through in the end."

"Yes, she did," Athos replied, thoughtfully. "When I met her in the Delta, she warned me about Koslov and Naaji working together, and I turned back."

"Why did you go off like that?" d'Artagnan asked.

"I told you," Athos said. "I wanted to draw him away from you. Plus, I wanted to be the one to finish him. For Treville. This is his dream."

"I kind of like it here too," d'Artagnan said, whirling around again.

"Even after all we have been through? You could have had a nice quiet time on Kruger."

Athos was lying quietly, watching him in amusement.

"Compared to this? I would have died of boredom!" d'Artagnan cried. "I wish I'd known you and Porthos when you were soldiers," he suddenly said.

"It's not a glamorous life, d'Artagnan," Athos replied, "It's hard work. We have seen some dreadful things. We have seen the worst of humanity. But also, I suppose, the best. People do surprise you when they are in the worst of conditions."

d'Artagnan smiled.

"I can believe that," he said. "Rach came through too. You were right about him."

"He just needed a little patient handling. Nyack did that, and now he is reconciled with all his family, including Nkosi."

"So, now we are no longer in any danger," d'Artagnan said, "Where do we go from here?"

"Much of the same," Athos replied. "You may come to find it boring."

"There is one thing ..." d'Artagnan said, ducking his head.

"Out with it," Athos growled.

"I would like to learn to fly."

Athos smiled. "We'll have to ask Porthos. He is next in line."

"I already did," d'Artagnan smirked. "He hates the idea. Says he never wants to go up in a plane again."

"Very well then," Athos laughed. "Treville has already said he would like another pilot trained up, as long as it doesn't interfere with your other work?"

d'Artagnan spun around. "It won't, I promise."

"Don't promise me, I am not your boss. Promise Treville," Athos said.

d'Artagnan did not need telling twice. He headed out, pushing himself through the door. "I'll do it now!" he shouted from halfway down the corridor.

oOo

 **New York City:**

Robert McCauley walked up to his front door.

It was opened by his wife, who smiled.

Strange how a relationship can flourish once all the tension has gone; once the thought of debts and addiction have been addressed.

McCauley had put his second chance to good use. Treville had arranged for his debts to be paid off, and in return, McCauley had entered rehab for his gambling addiction. His house was secure and his marriage, though still a work in progress, had not disintegrated.

The fact he had owned up to his problems and called Treville to tell him about The Arab was of continuing surprise to him, but it had given him hope that perhaps, deep down, he was the man he once was. His friendship with Treville had always been important to him and he would now ensure he honoured Treville's faith in him by pulling himself through this. He had found the trace of the altered surveillance report as well, and that had now been rectified.

As his children joined their mother at the door, he felt the weight he had carried drop away.

The thought of the Arab confronting him at his own door was the stuff of bad dreams. Perhaps, they would sell this house when this was over. But for now, there was a very fine aroma emanating from the kitchen, and he was ready to sit down with his family and enjoy a quiet dinner with them.

oOo

 **Four Months Later:**

"And that, my love, is the Champs-Elysees," Athos said, as they stepped from the elevator at the top of the Eiffel Tower and he pointed out the famous wide avenue below. In fact, all of Paris was laid out beneath them, in every direction, as far as the eye could see.

"It is beautiful," Nkosi gasped at the view below, clinging tightly onto his hand as the spring breeze blew through her hair.

"Better than the tree house?" he whispered.

"No, as beautiful as this is, there are no lagoons, no elephants, or zebra," she looked at him from beneath her dark lashes. "And no white rhino."

Oblivious of the throng of tourists around them, he drew her slowly in and kissed her.

For a moment, they could have been anywhere; it did not matter. What mattered was they were together and Africa was their home.

It had been amazing, showing her Paris. She had laughed and squealed and been reduced to tears of joy. This city could do that. Athos had not lost his love of France, but his heart now lay in the African savannah.

She understood a little more about her complicated man now and hopefully, they had finally swept away his past. Africa awaited them tomorrow. They would board their plane and fly back to Heshima, to her family and to his; joined together in friendship.

Unknown to Nkosi, there was a special ceremony awaiting them.

In a conspiratorial phone call that morning, Porthos had assured him everything was in place. All that remained was for him to give her the diamond ring he had in his pocket when their plane touched down on African soil. For it would be in Africa that he would propose marriage.

The diamond itself had been cut from one that Nyack had given to him along with his blessing, when Athos had explained his plan and formerly asked for his daughter's hand. It had previously been owned by Nkosi's mother, Jayne. Athos had had it cut and polished to his own design. It was, therefore a precious gift, given in love, to a much-loved young woman.

The Tswana were looking forward to the celebrations. They had an outfit ready for her, the one her mother wore to her marriage to her father. Of course, Athos would also offer her another ceremony of her own choosing, but he believed she would be very happy with what they all had planned.

A traditional African wedding.

Now that he was free at last.

In more ways than one.

oOo

 **EPILOGUE**

 **Moscow, Russia:**

The prison van pulled into the Matrosskaya Tishina prison in the Sokolniki District of Moscow on a cold February morning.

Yaroslav Krupin looked up from the inside of the van at the high grey stone walls.

Only three people had been able to successfully escape from this foreboding facility. The last was a man who dug a hole in the ceiling of his cell. He had dug it with a metal spoon, climbing up onto the roof and over the perimeter fence.

The Authorities blamed the non-observant and corrupt guards for his escape, as he had escaped using civilian clothing and mountaineering equipment, bought from a guard.

If the guards in his African prison had bothered, they would have seen a newspaper clipping from 2013 tacked on to his wall. He had been careful to take it down when he was transferred.

The man who escaped had been one of his men from several years before. It was he who sent Krupin the cutting.

As Krupin looked up at the walls, he smiled. They did not phase him.

 **MWISHO (End)**

oOo

 **A/N:**

Thank you for staying with me on this journey. It got us through most of the UK winter, didn't it!

Believe it or not, the prison break-out is a true story. The escapee was quickly recaptured.

 _Kwaheri_ , my friends.


End file.
